


Butterflies

by everythingispoetry



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF JARVIS, BAMF Tony, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Food Issues, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Protectiveness, Recovery, Relapsing, Tony Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingispoetry/pseuds/everythingispoetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has a secret. The thing's a tough opponent but it doesn't mean he's planning to give in anytime soon. Instead, he's going to rule the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE note that this story is about an eating disorder and it's not just a mentioned issue but the focus here. Some of the descriptions **might be triggering** as they are pretty graphic, so if it's an issue for you, don't read. And you all get my hugs, you slightly broken people  <3
> 
>  
> 
> This is a fill for [this very lovely very generic prompt ](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6565.html?thread=10741669#t10741669)asking for Tony with an eating disorder. It was one of the first I actually wanted to fill, back when I started frequenting the meme ;d

Long before you fight to save the world, you learn to fight to save yourself.

It starts slowly and secretly, the way it does in young adult books and television movies. There is this strange period of a few months when you’re travelling more than you’re sleeping, you spend days and nights and days with Ty and you’re out of control in a way you thoroughly enjoy. Then someone mentions something, an innocent comment that everyone would brush off and you do, too, but then you understood that they were right and you find yourself in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, staring at your body as if you’ve never seen it before.

It’s new. It’s new it’s more and you hate it.

Not long after Ty uses you, dumps you like a broken doll and you go back to America for good.

America welcomes you with big tabloid mess and you ignore all the questions skillfully.

You want – no, you need to change so desperately, you need to go back to what you were before you were broken because it was _you_ and not some meager copy, so you drink and forget about Ty and forget about eating when you work on another little thing that will save the world someday. Obie wraps his arm around your back every day and you manage not to cringe. There are girls and smiles and alcohol, and engines wires hard drives and everything is scented like something fake and it’s so familiar. Your body becomes familiar again, you can see the shapes of muscles on your body.

 

 

Stark Industries is Stark’s again and you almost forget the little adventure in Europe, you’re almost in control. There are even more girls, more booze, more weapons and you love it, you love yourself, you love the world and you’re past caring about girls that dump you. You respect them because they are badass, but you’re past caring, you can’t afford to care. You don’t want to care.

Then there is Rumiko and against your better judgment it ends up the same way your affair with Ty did; you almost accept that you’re unable to be in a relationship and you force yourself to believe that it’s okay.

There is a dull ache you can’t silence with booze and sex and even creating binges aren’t enough to make you feel really good.

You spend time with Dummy, he’s the only person that’s always around and that doesn’t always want something from you. He is your brother and son and a defective friend that you’ll never abandon.

 

 

One time when you’re drunk you decide that you want to be able to communicate with Dummy so you decide to create something, someone that would help you with that, just like in Star Wars. You work and work and work for days, neglecting your Stark Industries duties until Obie comes by and shouts until your head hurts. You give him a set of brilliant blueprints for self-navigating missiles and ignore him further and keep working, but you can’t make it right.

You are disappointed and losing your mind and quite happy, at the same time, because why wouldn’t a genius billionaire _not_ be happy.

Only that you are not happy because the world isn’t enough, there is nothing that could fill the emptiness inside you, nothing that would challenge you and keep you occupied. You get these _spells_ , Obie calls them _funks_ and then he doesn’t because you learn to act better and better each time and you don’t show anything.

There comes the newest _spell_ and you decide that you can’t be bothered to get up from bed – it’s not really that much of a decision – but after a day you drag yourself out anyway because you’re amazing like that and you’re gonna make the whole world hold its breath with amazement.

 

 

You are twenty-five.

You are out of shape and you have burns and cuts all over your arms and hands, you’ve been welding and soldering and creating and re-shaping so much that your body hurts everywhere. There is a charity ball that you need to attend, so you wear your best suit, a smile that makes everyone’s knees give out, and you put on perfect white gloves to disguise your red and bruised fingers. You don’t eat anything, just drink champagne and schmooze, and when you wake up next to a girl in the morning you grin with satisfaction and stroke her head for a few minutes before you go down to the workshop to figure out another life-changing thing or two or ten, Obie mentioned Stark Industries going into medical research with the army funding so you need to brush up on the subject.

There is an emptiness in your stomach that actually makes you feel like a human being, like something that’s alive and not a robotic creature.

You come up with half a dozen projects for Obie, starts working on that A.I. code you abandoned a few months earlier and you make the world love you even more, no matter how wild you are.

Your hipbones are sharper and your stomach is thinner and prettier and you adore it, right until you pass out in your workshop because you haven’t been eating.

When you wake up, Dummy is chirping worriedly over your head and petting your hair with his claw and your chest is tight with a warm feeling you haven’t experienced since Jarvis passed away. You ask Dummy to bring you some snack and eat it before attempting to get up from the floor.

‘I’m fine, Dummy, just got a little too caught up in work, you see, I’m gonna make you a baby brother that’ll be so much bigger than you, you little fool,’ you say and keep talking until Dummy calms down. He brings you another of those candy bars and you eat it, too, and then you go to sleep upstairs, showing off your perfect balance and assuring the bot that nothing’s wrong with your circuitry.

You wake up feeling more hungry than you can remember ever feeling, that’s only natural, you don’t need biology books to tell you how long can a human being go on without proper nutrition.

There is a mirror on your way to kitchen and you love the way the light plays in the hallway, casting shadows on your body, making it look mysterious and perfect.

Rationally, not eating is silly, but you can’t be bothered to be rational. It’s easy and efficient and it makes you happy so you decide you’re gonna have one sandwich before going back to work. The A.I. will take several months and you’ve got other projects to work on.

You eat a sandwich but the hunger doesn’t subside, it only gets worse, so you eat another one, ignoring the pang of guilt. Your body needs it, so you’re gonna give it some fuel and do your job.

The second sandwich leaves you with a hollow feeling in your gut that almost makes your eyes water, you need something more, okay, you haven’t really eaten in like four days. So you eat third sandwich and then a package of waffles, without even heating them up, and then a whole chocolate bar that you top with three glasses of chocolate milk. By the end, you feel almost painfully full and embarrassed and you’re glad there’s no one around who could see you pig out like that.

The hunger lessens with the strange feeling in your swollen stomach and it makes you miss the emptiness from half an hour earlier, but you ignore the feeling.

 

 

As it turns out, eating doesn’t make the hunger go away.

You don’t understand: your body doesn’t really respond like it should and you know it’s your fault, you broke it so now you have to fix it. You eat oatmeal for breakfast and salad for lunch and pasta for dinner, like a normal human being, for some time, but every time you put a bit of food into your mouth you feel guilty and _contaminated_.

Your bones lose their sharpness, even though there isn’t anything like a layer of fat on your body, but it’s enough to feel like you’re slipping again.

There are more girls and more sleepless nights you spend working and more booze, and it’s over a year since the whole madness started when you use _that_ word for the first time in your head. You are still months, away from having your A.I. ready, it’s 1996 and no one else seems to think you can create something fully sentient in this millennium. It’s the first time you wonder how many _calories_ do you consume with the alcohol and when you realize how much that is, you cut down on food and it leaves you with stomach aching from hunger again and when the pain is too much to bear, distracting you from your work, you leave Dummy in the workshop and march to the kitchen with grim determination and you decide to do something to make it go away.

You eat so much that you end up throwing it up and then you sit in the bathroom for almost an hour wondering what the fuck have you done to yourself.

You swear not to do it ever again and go to sleep so that you can start clean tomorrow.

In the morning, you are doing good. You spend the day with Dummy, working, and leave for a dinner meeting with one investor or another, you don’t need to know their names to charm them, it’s enough that you thoroughly know their business. Bu the end of the evening you sign the deal and when you’re back home, you basically run past your kitchen door and hide in the workshop, nursing a cup of cold coffee, and then fall asleep in the armchair.

 

 

A few weeks later there is a business trip to Austria. You and Obie spend five days in Vienna and Obie stares at you suspiciously all the time, as if he was afraid you’d end up causing yet another scandal that would make the media crazy. Under the scrutiny, you need to act the way that wouldn’t make anyone notice that you’re acting, so you push away the slight and ever-present guilt about all the butter and heavy cream you’re eating and you enjoy everything you’re offered, from food to opera and elegant European girls.

When you go back you don’t eat for three days and you know it’s sick, but you need it to be able to breathe, to think, to work. You invite three girls at once and they keep you occupied; when they are gone you take care of Dummy and write codes until your fingertips are aching.

‘Two times is not conclusive,’ you tell Dummy when he handles you a screwdriver you asked him for; you need to fix the glitch of the engine of your red ’67 Jaguar E. Dummy has no idea what you’re talking about because you never told him anything, he wouldn’t understand the human issues and he’d just end up worried more than he already is.

Two times _is_ conclusive and you know it, you know yourself too well to pretend. You know that you can talk to the president of the USA on daily basis and make fun of prominent generals because they thing you’re endearing, and you can charm the whole country with your sleek funny words on one of late-evening TV shows and you can have everything you want to, but you can’t fool yourself.

You try to.

It works until you do _that_ again. You put inside your body half of an extra-large pizza and a full dish of pasta and so many oreos that you feel nauseous from the sugar, but you figure that since you already failed and started on this – and you’ll get rid of everything that ends up in your body – you eat more and more until you’re in pain. You’ve already sworn to yourself you will fast after this and you want to feel as many flavors on your tongue as possible.

Then you throw up and laugh at yourself, holding your aching empty stomach. You pop a few painkillers before going to sleep and you live off them the next day.

Stark Industries gets another big contract with the military, you travel to China, the business it better than ever before, and you have your dirty little secret.

 

 

You finish the A.I. code in mid-1997, knowing that it’s far from perfect, but also knowing that it doesn’t have to be perfect. It will learn because you made it a learning unit, just like Dummy. You launch it in the middle of hot September night, Indian summer in full swing, and the voice with a perfect British accent greets you.

‘Hello, JARVIS. It’s me. Sir,’ you say, addressing the A.I. with the name that’s at the very basis if its code.

‘Voice recognition: creating unit Anthony Edward Stark. Hello, sir.’

You grin so wide you think your face must look ridiculous, but you don’t care because this was like a twenty-one months long pregnancy and now your baby is here, talking to you and making you the most amazing genius on the planet, not that you didn’t know that before, but JARVIS is more than anyone has ever dreamed about.

He is also going to be your secret.

‘Run the code and servers check, JARVIS,’ you tell the computer. JARVIS has one camera, one speaker and one microphone device at the moment, the bare minimum, but you’ll make him beautiful now that you know he’s working.

‘Command recognized. Estimated time: two hours forty-three minutes.’

‘Go on,’ you say before leaving the workshop. You want to celebrate and fuck the world, fuck yourself and fuck all your issues, you decide to eat a nice meal with a glass or two of scotch and enjoy it. You are not sure when has food become your idea of a reward, of a celebration, but it might have been around the time it’s become a thing.

You eat a plate of mushroom risotto and drink your scotch and visit JARVIS, but he’s running his check and he’s not good at multitasking (yet) so you go back upstairs. To your credit, you manage half an hour before you give in to the feeling of guilt and angry hopelessness – because what you’ve intended as a nice and pleasant meal didn’t feel like that as soon as the last forkful ended up in your mouth.

There’s a lot of food in the kitchen and you don’t even think about what you’re eating, it doesn’t matter, what matters is that satisfies your hunger for now. There’s this weird feeling in your gut and you chew and swallow and feel the food slowly constantly fill your stomach; it takes almost half an hour before you’re done and you make point of not looking at the wrappers and empty dishes you left around. Your bulged out belly hurts but it doesn’t matter, because you go to the bathroom and throw up and you almost feel clean.

JARVIS works perfectly and you are almost happy. There’s never fully happy these days, but that’s fine, there’s never been something like full happiness.

 

 

A few weeks later you’re throwing up in a three-Michelin-star restaurant somewhere in France and you notice there are strange marks on the back of your hands and you almost panic, it doesn’t take you long to you realize where they come from and you swear to take care of it.

Back in New York, you spend as much time with JARVIS as possible, teaching him just about everything, and letting him be friends with Dummy.

 

 

In summer 1998 you meet Happy – his name is still Harold at that time – who is an ex-boxer, retired early after an injury, and now working as a driver for a luxury limousine taxi company. You talk for forty minutes and the next morning you fire you security guard and hire Happy to fill the positions of a bodyguard and a chauffeur and a friend.

You don’t mention the friend part but you both know that you just fit together.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> So here we go, another experiment story. Second person POV is sticking with me.  
> This kinda hurt to write & I'm not really sure because this is different from what I usually write, I'm letting my thoughts loose this time. I hope you liked it. All feedback here is very very welcome <3


	2. II

Happy becomes a constant, he’s always around when you travel and when you go to parties and when you host parties, but you make sure he’s away, far enough, when you binge. It’s been months and you’ve learned to admit that to yourself, that you’ve got a problem, but as long as no one else know and it isn’t exactly bad, it’s okay.

It’s a cycle that you can’t break, you fast and eat and feel guilty and binge and get rid of the food and hate being weak like that so, so much.

And you can’t help but notice that you’ve been gaining weight anyway, you observe your body with dread every morning and every evening and you have sex with those lovely girls only when the lights are out.

(That’s only logical, your brain supplies, when you vomit you actually get rid of 40 to 50% of the calories you’ve consumed and it can be 8000 in one sitting and it’s so much it makes breathing hard when you think about it.)

So you ask Happy this:

‘How about you teach me boxing?’

Happy stares at him for a long moment, and then nods curtly.

‘Sure, boss but you’d need to shape up a bit first –’

‘Are you implying that I’m out of shape?’ you inquire, keeping your voice leveled and playful, quirking one eyebrow, acting perfectly Stark-like and not letting Happy know that you’re almost paralyzed when you wait half of a second for the answer.

‘Not at all, boss,’ Happy laughs, completely oblivious to your internal war, and you feel guilt wash over you for involving your friend in the whole mess without him knowing. (And for thinking that Happy is a bit pudgy and bigger than you and for feeling good because of that. It makes you feel like a monster, but you can’t help it, and you can’t stop comparing yourself to other people.) ‘But if you wanna lay a punch on me, you’ll have to train hard and I’m sure you’re gonna say you want that.’

‘I do,’ you laugh and you start training the next day.

Happy gets a raise because now he’s a bodyguard, a chauffeur _and_ a personal trainer.

 

 

You run and do cardio and whatever Happy makes you do and you see your body slimming down, becoming more lean and stronger and amazing. You lose almost no weight, because of all the muscles you’re building, but your body looks perfect and it makes you _almost happy_.

You go on like that for some time, wearing crazy 90s hairstyles and clothes and traveling the world and introducing one invention after another, making people want even more every day, and it works. It bring the world closer to 21st century. It makes a difference.

You introduce Happy to JARVIS almost half a year after you met the man, because JARVIS needs time to grow and change, he needs new servers for more data and more cameras and more _everything_ and only when you’re done with the upgrades, you take Happy down to the workshop and tell him to say hello to your A.I.

It’s not a good decision because there’s something you haven’t realized: both of them care about you more than they care about anyone else. It’s embarrassing and endearing at the same time, you decide, but you wish they wouldn’t be like that because it’s only a month later when this happens: you’re entering the house after a morning workout with Happy and he stops you from running up to your room to get a shower.

‘How about breakfast?’ he asks and it’s natural, because you’ve been friends for months now and honestly you should have started being around each other more. And being more honest.

‘Nah, I’ll have some later,’ you reply, making the words sound offhanded.

‘You’re gonna work,’ Happy says, frowning slightly. ‘For the rest of the day,’ he adds and you nod lightly. That’s what you do every day. ‘JARVIS told me you never eat when you are in the workshop but you obviously have to eat sometimes because you’d be dead by now if you didn’t.’

‘It’s not your problem,’ you snap and it comes out sharper than you’ve intended. Happy flinches slightly and you close his eyes and breathe. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, you’re right, it’s not my problem,’ Happy agrees, shrugging, and disappears outside the mansion, surely going to the small guard’s house he chose to inhabit. You stay unmoving there for a few more moments before going up and standing under almost too hot shower for a long time.

You want to say you’re sorry again, but it would mean bringing up the subject.

It works until you almost faint during a run because you’ve been doing fine and barely eating for the last three days. You feel a surge of panic when you feel your legs give out under the weight of your body, but Happy catches you before you fall to the ground.

‘If you tell me you’re fine,’ he says with an angry face, ‘I’m gonna punch you for lying.’

You are kind of terrified.

Happy almost carries you back to the house, makes you sit on a sofa and offers you a room temperature soda to drink. He doesn’t say anything, but he stares at you so intently that it means more than thousand words.

‘I kinda got distracted and forgot to eat,’ you say sheepishly, keeping your eyes fixed behind Happy’s head, the way that makes him think you’re maintaining eye contact while you’re too ashamed to do that.

‘People don’t forget to eat,’ Happy points out, still sounding angry.

‘Geniuses do,’ you counter. This is a fact, some crazy geniuses can forget to sleep or eat or talk with other human beings when they’re engrossed in their thoughts.

And you’ve been doing okay. You haven’t been vomiting that much, choosing to go for a run to burn off the excessive calories, because you’ve been freaking out about the marks on your hands and discoloration of his teeth that started to show. And (almost) not throwing up _is_ doing okay.

‘Do you trust me enough to tell me what’s wrong?’ Happy asks and a cold shiver runs down your spine, because Happy is genuine and really worried and you feel so bad for lying.

But you can’t make yourself say what your line should be.

‘No,’ your reply instead of _nothing is wrong_ and you run away before you can see the disappointment on Happy’s face. You work until your body hurts from being hunched over the workbench for too long and when you emerge from the workshop, it’s evening and Happy is not around. That’s the only thing you’re good at, you sometimes thinks, overall: fucking up. Because there are many amazing things you’ve done, countless amazing things, you’re leading the world into the century of internet and technology, but there’s always something you manage to fuck up.

It’s probably a human thing, but you should be more than that.

You feel guilty for hurting Happy and in a masochistic moment you call delivery and order two pizzas. You want three and four and five, but you stop yourself from saying those numbers. When the delivery arrives, you pay the man with a conquering smile and then eat both of the pizzas in forty minutes, wash them down with some juice, and ignore the double guilt balling up in your gut.

The heavy feeling of the food pressing your body from the inside when you keep eating to the point in which physical discomfort is almost a punishment. You throw up, for the first time in weeks, and then take too many laxatives before hiding in your bedroom.

You manage through the first few hours of the morning, dragging yourself between bathroom and bedroom, and then around noon you go down to your workshop, but your stomach hurts too much to work so you just crawl onto the armchair, curl up, and ask JARVIS to play you some music and talk to you on the top of that so you can concentrate on something else than the pain.

That’s how Happy finds you.

‘We should go to ER,’ he says and you almost laugh.

‘Not going anywhere,’ you murmur. The pain has lessened a bit and partially turned into the familiar empty achy feeling. ‘Why are you here?’ you add, because Happy has never come to the workshop without being invited.

‘JARVIS called me,’ Happy says, glancing at the computer with a warm look on his face.

You take in a deep breath.

You should be amazed because it’s JARVIS’ first completely self-made decision, but you feel terrible for making the A.I. worried like that.

‘Does this have something to do with not-eating?’ Happy asks, his voice much softer than before, and you really want to lie to him, you want to lie to him so much you can’t breathe, but you are not able to. You don’t want him to know because it’s embarrassing and freaky and awful and you don’t want him to know because you don’t want to be a problem – but you are not able to lie.

So you say nothing and that is as much of a yes as there can be.

‘You can talk to me when you’re ready,’ Happy says, scooping you up easily – it should be much more difficult, you note absentmindedly, you’re so heavy – and he carries you to your bedroom. Several minutes later he comes back with painkillers and mint infusion. You drink it but you don’t take the pills.

‘Try to sleep,’ Happy says and you still keep silent.

In the morning Happy brings you breakfast and you kind of tear up over it. It’s been a few weeks – to your defense, a few very crappy weeks – since you ate a normal meal that wasn’t either much too tiny or a binge one.

‘I can’t,’ you tell Happy and turn over because you don’t want him to look at you. ‘Go the fuck away.’

‘I won’t,’ Happy replies. You know that he won’t. ‘You like me too much to send me away for good,’ he adds and you feel angry at him for being insistent, but you also grin amusedly at the comment. Happy is completely right.

 

 

It takes you six hours to choke _those_ words out because by that time you understand that Happy is not going to move anywhere and he’s not backing away. He’ll stare at you until you talk and while you could really send him away, you won’t, you both know it.

‘I –’ you start, still laying on your side the way Happy can’t see your face. ‘It’s pathetic,’ you say in quiet, almost shy voice that isn’t Tony Stark’s. You feel dizzy and there’s a burning sensation of anxiety feeling all your body, but you force yourself to push past the embarrassment. ‘ _Really_.’

‘You built an A.I., boss, a fully functional one, a decade ahead of everyone else, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing that can outweigh your awesomeness.’

You consider, but it feels like a weak point, maybe because it’s hard to look past the dull pain in your stomach that kinda makes your whole body ache in extension.

It’s been over three years since you started and it’s been slow and moderate and controlled, but it’s still been three years and you can’t believe it.

‘Can I say what I noticed? Maybe it’ll be easier for you,’ Happy asks reluctantly and you wave at him to continue. ‘You never eat in public unless you’re kinda forced to ‘cause of business, but you’re not, you know, underweight, you just seem to… lose a bit of weight sometimes and then gain it back? It looks like that to me, not that I’ve been, I dunno, invigilating you, but I’m around and – I just notice. Bodyguard thing? I’m trained to notice details –’

‘Right,’ you say, your voice hoarse.

‘So, what’s the not-eating deal?’

‘You’ve heard the stories,’ you huff a bit too coldly. ‘They talk ‘bout that on tv.’

‘So, you put a label on yourself?’ Happy asks after the shortest moment of silence. ‘Doesn’t sound like you, boss.’

‘Fits the criteria,’ you chuckle dryly. It’s all so surreal. You could honestly wriggle out of replying and keep your secret a secret a little longer, but you’re not sure you want that. 

‘Which criteria?’ Happy asks, as if it was nothing, and you find yourself answering, your words slightly muffled by the pillow your head is resting on.

‘Eating and throwing up, rinse repeat and so on so on.’

Happy stays silent for a long moment.

‘How long –’

‘Over three years, since the first time,’ you reply easily because if you started, you can finish the game. You can do this. It’s – it should do you some good, Probably. Maybe.

‘So you throw up,’ Happy states, his voice bearing a slight note of tiredness that wasn’t there before. ‘That’s like helluva unhealthy, you know that?’

‘I’ve been – less,’ you reply, making the sentence half of a sentence, but the meaning is still perfectly clear. ‘Been running more, to keep… _things_ under control.’

‘I noticed, just didn’t get why,’ Happy says and you turn around to look at your friend. He’s staring at the bowl of cold oatmeal he brought earlier as if there was at least chopped alien liver inside. ‘Thought you were _just_ exercising. But – ah. Okay,’ Happy sighs and rubs his face. ‘So, what we gonna do?’

‘We?’ you say before you realize and it sounds only a bit surprised.

Happy rolls his eyes and you offer him a smallest smile.

‘It still doesn’t cancel out your awesomeness, boss. Not at all,’ he adds and this time, your smile is wide. ‘I have no idea how anything is supposed to work right now, but we’ll figure it out. JARVIS will help. ‘So we just need to… break the cycle or something? First? You managed to do that?’

‘Yeah. Tough as hell. Always relapse,’ you offer quietly. It’s good, it feels good and natural and reassuring that Happy isn’t freaked out, at least not on the outside.

‘Well, we’ve gotta try,’ Happy says, taking the oatmeal bowl into his hand. ‘How about we start with this?’ he asks and you nod. You’re pretty sure you can’t eat it whole without feeling terrible, but you will try.

Happy doesn’t try to feed you or anything and you love him pretty much for that.

‘Explain it to me?’ he asks when you’re done with the food, after half an hour, a heavy feeling – completely inadequate to the amount of food you just ate – sitting in your gut. ‘Walk me through it.’

‘Eating means gaining weight,’ you says, but then you correct yourself because that’s only half of the truth. ‘It means being out of control that I’ve got when I’m… fasting, I guess that’s the word? Not eating. Eating means I fucked up so I can as well fuck up completely because it doesn’t matter how much, I don’t quantify it really – and there’s hunger. From not eating. Insatiable.’

‘So you eat until you’re sick and achy and throw up.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why did you fail when you tried to go on normally?’ Happy asks without any other questions. You’re grateful he doesn’t ask much or about every detail.

‘I dunno,’ you reply and it’s the truth. Many reasons come to your mind, but you’re not sure any of them is the actual true reason. ‘Control. Comfort, in a way. Punishment. Hunger. Something, a mix of all things.’

‘… can I, like, look after you?’ Happy asks with an unsure frown, watching you closely.

‘As in?’

‘We make a meal plan and I’ll be around to make sure you stick to it and don’t – vomit. Or anything,’ he explains and you’re fascinated because he actually sounds genuine and eager to help you and not disgusted in any way.

‘We could try,’ you agree. It’s the most reasonable thing you can keep about, too, _without_ mentioning therapy and all that psychiatric stuff. It’s the 90s and you can predict the future the way everyone else can and you can tell the world will be more understanding in a few years, but not yet. Eating disorders are still for teenage girls and you don’t think there even is someone who could help _you_.

And you’ve come this far so things are gonna be fine.

 

 

So you stick to the plan you make with Happy and JARVIS and it actually works, you’re not gaining weight – you’re not losing it, either, but that’s ok – and you’re feeling healthier, saner, more balanced. More yourself.

Happy is always there, hovering over you, and you trust him and it’s fine.

There are more travels and more girls and more weapons and other inventions, Star Industries steadily climbs up all possible ladders and you’re throwing your smiles all over the world. You cut down on alcohol but don’t stop completely, a few drinks are always nice, moderation is the key and all the jazz, and things go smoothly.

You enter into year 2000 with clean record and that’s what being happy means right now.

It’s the longest you’ve been… fine – well, fine doesn’t exactly describe you well because of what’s going on in your head, but _physically_ fine – since Ty.

You shine, you shine, you shine.

 

 

Then you relapse because that’s what always happens. You’ve been clean for almost half a year and then all of sudden you enter one of your _spells_ and that’s the reason and it’s crazy because you’ve dealt with them million times before without making things even more of a mess, but not this time, it’s all just a bit too much at once and you don’t tell Happy because he actually doesn’t know about them. The _spells_. The _funks_.

You still manage to drag yourself out of the bed in the morning, go to Stark Industries’ R&D and work, go to board meeting and present all the newest inventions, gaining yourself approving looks from all the old men and a supporting pat on the back from Obie. Then you go to a bar with a girl for drinks but you don’t take her home, you don’t feel like sex at all and you won’t as long as the _spell_ lasts. You know, rationally, logically, that none of what’s happening is normal and you should seek help, but you don’t.

You’re not entirely sure why. It’s just that everything is _too_ _much_.

On your way back you stop by a fast food joint and buy enough food to feed four people and eat it all, there’s no stopping until you’re done, then you pull over by the side of the road and throw up. When you get back home, your stomach is swollen and half-empty.

It repeats for five days, until you’re constantly sore and bloated and it’s strange but you’ve never done five days straight before. You’ve been doing everything to avoid Happy noticing something is wrong, it feels like betraying him because he’s made so, so much effort to help you.

But then he finds you, like in a cheap movie, when he gets home much earlier than he was supposed to. You are not supposed to be at home either, but you couldn’t concentrate on your work in SI labs so you came home.

That’s an excuse, of course.

Happy walks in when you’re eating the lasts of a chocolate chip cookies, swearing to yourself that you’re not gonna throw it up but go for a ten mile run when the food has settled, because sick is sick but running is still healthier than throwing up, even if it’s obsessive running.

You ate a whole dozen in about seven minutes, after a lunch binge, and your stomach hurts and it’s big and you feel like a fucking whale you are.

Happy shakes his head with this tiny sad look on his face, but he doesn’t look disappointed.

‘You’re not gonna throw up,’ he says and you nod. ‘You sure?’

You nod again. Isn’t that bad, it would be bad in another half an hour because you know you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.

‘No over-exercising either. No _nothing_. We’re just gonna… move on,’ Happy says, eying you with that slight frown still present. You hate that idea so, so much, but it’s probably the best thing you can come up with, too.

‘Must’ve gained a few pounds,’ you murmur, feeling self-conscious because you are aware that the additional weight _shows_.

‘If I were your girl, boss, I’d say you look as pretty as ever, but you’re not, so I’m just gonna say you’re all muscle so no one’s even gonna notice and you know it.’

You both work it out _again_ , there are a few days of lighter diet and some detoxy foods to make you feel better. JARVIS counts the calories and adds them up and shows you on a perfect diagram, the way you know every single detail and it makes you feel much better. You’re glad those two are watching over you.

There are another slip-ups, but they are smaller and that’s okay because it’s just a part of recovery. No one can just go from being sick to being healthy in a day.

Right now you build your days around food and meals and calories but it’s still a progress. You go to Stark Industries and rock the R&D, creating more weapons and computer-related stuff. You build two more robots that end up being Dummy’s best buddies. You negotiate contracts, wearing snug suits and million-dollar smiles.

And in late 2000 you meet Pepper.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> I would be very interested in hearing what you think about this :)


	3. III

When you meet her, her name is still Virginia and she’s working for the accounting in New York office. She corrects a mistake some professional you hired made and you’re impressed enough to visit her in person, creating a big stir in the building.

‘You’re smaller than I thought you’d be,’ she tells you cheekily and you _stare_ because sure, about five thousand people told you that you’re _short_ , but that’s not what she said.

Then you smile.

‘And you’re the sweetest thing ever,’ you tell her and flutter your eyelashes. She blushes slightly and picks at the hem of her jacket for a moment.

‘That probably could count as sexual harassment,’ she says in the end, looking straight into your eyes, and you know that you’ve been played and it was the blush and the innocent voice. ‘I could get a lot of money from that.’

‘You could earn more if you worked for me,’ you say, putting your hands into the pockets of your suit pants.

‘I do work for you, Mister Stark.’

‘Nor personally,’ you remind her and watch her frown. ‘I’m in New York a lot, but not most of the time, and I will be around even less when I build myself a mansion in California. You like the sun?’

‘It burns by skin. I have a light skin tone, in case your sunglasses distort your perception.’

You laugh again.

‘You’re fun. Do you want to work for me? Personally? I need a PA, like, yesterday, my previous one lasted about three months and I’m sure you know that, it’s like a hot gossip everywhere around Stark Industries and –’

‘If you always talk so much, I’m not surprised they all quit,’ she cuts in, rolling her eyes. ‘And just like that? You won’t even consult my CV, Mister Stark? You’ve know me for about seven minutes.’

‘And I know this: major in accounting and minor in fine arts, you’ll be twenty-six in a months, you come from West Virginia – isn’t that ironic? – and you’ve been working for me, _not_ directly, for nine months, gaining only praises from your superiors. That’s something.’

‘… okay,’ she agrees, biting her lip. She gives you a long look. ‘What would I do?’

‘Organize my business life, basically. Exotic trips, meeting big names, lots of science – dunno if you care about science – will surely happen. All inclusive. You can get as many of those colorful drinks with mini umbrellas as you want, all on my expense.’

‘I prefer dry Martini with lots of olives,’ she says and you grin because you can tell she’s already decided. That’s good. She seems like someone who can manage your meetings and travels and all the mess you don’t want to be bothered with; there are a few big project coming up and you need your mind perfectly free of all silly waste.

‘You can move in my mansion, if you wanna,’ you tell her a few days later, when you’re discussing the details of your arrangement. ‘It could house about a hundred people easily. I live there when I’m around the city, but in a few months we’ll be moving to California, like I told you. You can chose what do you want there, too. A room? Separate house? Apartment in Malibu? Your call.’

‘You realize you are a bit crazy with your generosity, Mister Stark, right? You want to pay me this number,’ she says, pointing at the contract with her red-painted nail. ‘And you still want to provide me free housing.’

‘Billionaire,’ you say flippantly, as if it explained everything. She considers.

‘All right. I want an apartment in the city. And I do have one in New York, so I’ll be okay for the few months.’

You nod and then you finish talking and she signs the contract. You take her to your house to show her around, just in case, and she meets Happy and JARVIS. Happy eyes you unsurely, you know he’s just an anxious little thing – he doesn’t coddle you or tiptoe around you but he’s always worried. Happy and her will work perfectly together, you know that much. They are the types.

 

 

There are some good times after. You get the contract with military for medical research, expanding Stark Industries’ civilian branches. It’s great because as much as you love the money that comes from making weapons, you enjoy the challenge. You’re the best at bombs and missiles and guns, the best in the whole world and everyone wants your tech, but it all comes too easily. You don’t like being bored, you don’t like feeling empty and strange so you look for something new to do every day.

You work with JARVIS on having him in control of the house you’re building in Malibu. That is a challenge. You need to create schematics, double check every detail, make sure JARVIS will have everything covered, and then you need to make it all work. The world still doesn’t believe in functional A.I.s.

The world needs to be proven wrong so you create a mini-A.I., far from what JARVIS is, and present it on Stark Industries’ science conference where everyone presents their research from the year. The media is crazy and smitten with you and you love it.

You invite Playboy bunnies to your house and ignore Pepper’s tired frowns, she’s used to all this by now. You drink a lot but it’s not anything unusual, and you stick to the routine you’ve been working on with JARVIS and Happy and your eating is almost fine.

There are slip-ups, there always are, you can’t imagine your life without them, but you manage. You work out and show off and offer everyone radiant blinding smiles.

 

 

‘You should tell Pepper,’ Happy says one evening when you’re working on one of your cars and Happy is sitting on a stool next to you and watching; he loves cars.

‘There’s nothing to tell her. No reason,’ you reply easily.

‘Right, sure,’ Happy huffs and you want to punch him for being like that, for not believing you, for the sarcasm. Even if he’s right. ‘Can you look me in the eye and tell me slowly and honestly that you’re not thinking like that? Because that’s when I’d say you’re done with it.’

You can’t do that. Happy knows everything and you won’t lie to Happy. You feel like you’re in control and it’s fine, but you figured the problem out ages ago: there’s always this strange insatiable hunger in your gut, it’s a phantom hunger because you know you’re not really famished. You want it gone. It’s still there.

(And there is an ever-present stunning fear that you’re gonna fail and end up in pieces hating yourself even more than you do now, sometimes only worse than the other days.)

 

 

Then it’s one of the last days in your New York mansion and you spend it walking through the long corridors and vast rooms and trying to remember and forget all the days you spent here when your parents were still alive. In retrospect, that’s a very bad idea because you’re getting emotional over this and ugh. Howard always was a cold and demanding bastard and Maria was never around and the memories are not very fond.

You get a drink, despite it being only one p.m., and then another and another. Howard’s words and Maria’s detachment feel more remote and insignificant with every glass of scotch you drink. That makes you kind of happy until you freak out about the whole situation because hell, it was Howard who have you your first drink when you were only a boy and it was him who was the high-functioning alcoholic and it was him you learned how to fool everyone from.

At that point you know you can’t stop yourself and you go on a binge that hurts all over your body and makes the blood pulsate in your veins painfully. You try not to think what would your _father_ think if he saw you like that, but you can’t shake off the feeling as if he was watching you over your shoulder, hidden somewhere in the enormous building. You’re drunk and you have no self-control and self-respect left and you swallow the food almost without chewing but before you get to the point when it _really_ hurts and you don’t even want to think about how you must look, you run out of the room and go to the bathroom and break all the mirrors instead of making yourself throw up (you can’t, _can’t_ look at yourself.)

Your hands are covered in cuts and blood and they sting remotely, so you hug them close to your chest and try to steady your breaths, feeling every single beat of your heart pounding against your chest uncomfortably.

The entrance bell rings several minutes later and you swear because you _forgot_ that JARVIS has a camera in every room now and he must have called someone to assist you.

You wish it was Happy, but it’s Pepper.

Right. Happy is out of town visiting his sick relative somewhere. You let Pepper in anyway and ignore how scared she looks.

‘I’m gonna go throw up,’ you tell her because you lack brain-mouth filter right now. She’s seen you drunk like this before and it was probably the lack of blood that let her handle you just fine so far.

She follows you but you close the doors in her face and you do make yourself vomit like you said.

You love how the light feeling settles down in your stomach when you’ve emptied its contest. Okay. So you binge and purge and now you make sure you don’t do it again because one time is not that bad.

There are three more days before you move out and you’re not gonna make it, you know that much even when you’re drunk, you’ve learned to recognize the bad moments. And Happy will be back the day after tomorrow – he would be back in a few hours if you called him but you’re not going to make him leave his dying uncle or aunt or someone just because you’ve been stupid.

Your cell phone buzzes with a text message notification because JARVIS doesn’t have speakers everywhere in the Mansion. It says this: _Sir, please_ , and you can imagine JARVIS saying it with a pained undertone that shouldn’t ever happen because he’s a computer. If JARVIS could be frustrated with his helplessness, he would.

Maybe he can be. The thought makes you shiver.

‘Are you all right?’ Pepper asks when you finally get out of the bathroom. ‘Let me dress your hand. You’re completely drunk, Mister Stark. _Again_.’

‘Pep, it’s nothin’,’ you murmur. ‘Why d’ya always see me when I’m – messed up, like this?’

Pepper stays silent for a few long moments when she’s picking the tiny glass pieces out of your hands and then covers them with bandage carefully. You look as if you were going to box.

‘I take it getting hurt while punching mirrors isn’t a normal thing, then. That’s a relief,’ she states, ignoring your whiney question. It makes you smirk a tiniest bit.

‘Can we, ya know, talk things when I’m sober?’

‘If you go to sleep now, Mister Stark, maybe we can,’ Pepper replies in her usual composed voice. You nod and let her walk you to your bedroom and you curl up on the top of your bed and fall into the blissful darkness.

 

 

You wake up at ten in the morning with a head-splitting headache and nausea and aching hands.

You decide that you’re Tony Stark and you’re a genius and you do rule the world and own a big chunk of it and you can handle little honesty with a person you’ve learned to call a friend, even though the friendship is far from conventional. You want to be done with it.

The first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem and you’d be dumb if you haven’t done that ages ago.

The second, you figure, is sharing with someone who can help you.

‘I’ve got this… thing,’ you say. Pepper stares. You make a face. ‘This is about the first time I volunteer the information and might be the first time I actually use this word.’

Pepper looks slightly confused, but she nods, you know she trusts that your words will explain everything. She’s your first PA to look past your ramble and silence and actually listen.

‘You’re also the third person to know,’ you add and you both know you’re stalling.

‘So, no Rhodey?’

‘No,’ you admit with a small smile because you love Pepper for calling JARVIS a person. You’re still not entirely sure if she believes he’s a person or she just says that to humor you, but it doesn’t matter that much right now. She respects your wishes and that’s sweet. ‘Rhodey is something else,’ you add and laugh drily. Rhodey _is_ something else. He’s your best friend and sometimes you forget about his existence for weeks because he’s always away. You’re happy for him. It’s enough to meet once in six months and understand each other subconsciously.

But Rhodey doesn’t know because he’d be too worried and he fights in wars so you can’t afford to make him distracted. You equip him with your best guns and protective gear, but it’s not enough to keep him alive.

‘Y’know, I got – bulimia,’ you say finally and god that word sound so out of place in the neat sun-filled room. ‘I really never said that before,’ you add, glancing at Pepper. She’s observing you without blinking. ‘It’s been… over five years since, y’know, the first time.’

‘Oh Tony,’ Pepper sighs and it’s the first time she calls you by your name, you’ve been trying to persuade her to do that for months, but maybe in this situation even she decided that being professional isn’t the most important thing.

It becomes a summary of what she thinks about you, the _oh Tony_ said in several different ways.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks and you understand what she’s really asking about.

‘It’s never been _really_ bad,’ you offer in small voice. ‘As much as you can quantify that stuff… But it’s never been _terrible_. I don’t think I even qualify right now, given the criteria,’ you laugh drily, again, and you’re aware it’s inappropriate, but you can’t stop yourself. ‘I mean, it says twice a week for the last three months –’

‘And you –’

‘I’ve got Happy and JARVIS keeping an eye on me – or hands on my food, really.’

‘So when Happy is gone –’

‘No,’ you cut in. ‘I’d have done this anyway, it’s just… it gets bad sometimes and things just happen.’

‘And before –’

‘Before Happy found out, I more than _qualified_ ,’ you offer her a quick half-broken smile. ‘It was –‘ you start, but then your realize you don’t know what to say. ‘It was really bad. That was years ago though.’

‘But you still –’

‘Relapse,’ you supply and finally look up to meet her eyes. ‘Yeah. You know. Big secret. Imagine the headlines.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she says, stands up, comes up to you and hugs you from behind, resting her head on your shoulder. Pepper doesn’t like when you have an arm around her waist because she thinks it’s unprofessional and unbecoming, even if no one but her even notices when you do that because you’re Tony Stark and you’re a world-famous playboy. ‘Can I help somehow?’

You stay silent for a long moment.

‘You can stay and make sure I don’t get my hands on food,’ you say.

‘You need to eat though,’ she replies, tickling the skin on your neck a bit. You try not to count days since the last time someone hugged you just to hug.

‘I don’t want to,’ you reply with honesty that surprises even you. ‘It scary.’

‘I bet,’ she agrees and tightens the hug. ‘We’ll figure something out.’

That’s like the fucking motto of your life.

 

 

Pepper stays with you until Happy comes back, two days later, and you don’t have to explain anything to him because he walks in when she is putting a plate with two pancakes and a handful of fresh berries and a blob of plain yogurt in front of you. (JARVIS counted the calories for you and all the other nutritional content and you nodded in acceptance, JARVIS is the best at all that.)

‘Again?’ he asks, knowing that you’ll know what it’s about. You nod. ‘Sorry, boss.’

‘ _My_ fault,’ you reply, stressing the first word. ‘Pepper’s been help–’

‘Pepper’s also had an idea and I thought you’d like to know about,’ she cuts in, sitting down with her own meal in front of her. ‘When we move to Malibu, I’ll stay in the mansion. All the time. Tony agreed.’

‘JARVIS, like he phrased it, unfortunately doesn’t have a set of hands.’

Happy laughs at that, you laugh too and Pepper joins in the last.

‘See? It’s just an obstacle,’ you tell Pepper because she’s been too worried about you. Happy has learned not to be like that constantly, you’ve learned not to think of relapse constantly because it doesn’t help with anything.

It’s just an epithet, the word _bulimic_. It’s just a quality and it doesn’t define you.

 

 

When you move to Malibu, you conquer the western shore the way you conquered the eastern one. You work and work and work more, Stark Industries is expanding, Obie is proud of you and you’re proud of yourself. You go to charity balls and celebrity parties, you go back home with girls and sometimes with men and Pepper always has their clothes cleaned in the morning and sees them out when you’re back to your workshop. You fly across the globe and launch Stark satellites to privatize the space. You smile and laugh and joke around and it’s what you’ve always wanted your life to be.

JARVIS is everywhere you go now, in addition to being in control of the house, you have a portable device of the size of a cell phone where you’ve got JARVIS _installed_ and always in contact with you via the satellites.

There is almost no food in the house. You asked for it. Maybe there should be and you should teach yourself self-containment and moderation but you don’t want to take the risk because everyone knows you’re impulsive and compulsive and a little bit insane.

That’s how years pass.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and thank you so much for your insightful words. I realize it might be hard to comment because things like _nice_ or _like_ or _enjoy_ don't exactly cut in, so it means a lot to me.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading & commenting, it means a lot to me to know your opinions. I hope this chapter clears up some things & that it lives up to your expectations :)

Sometime in 2007, you relapse badly.

It’s not one of the _spells_ this time, you’ve learned to live your life around them. There’s a messy relationship you’re in, but it’s just a fake so you really don’t care much, not the way you did with Ty and Rumiko, and when you two break up you realize you don’t really have anyone in your life.

You have your friends, but they are just friends. You adore them, but they are not enough. But you teach yourself how to live around that, too.

The real reason is that there is a system malfunction and an explosion in one of Stark Industries’ plants. You have so many factories and research facilities that it’s a miracle nothing serious happened before, when you calculate the probability you realize something was bound to happen sooner or later.

Mathematics doesn’t justify death.

There are two people dead and a dozen injured and Stark Industries pays for everything and there’s a trial but the sentence says it was simply and accident that can happen anytime and anywhere, especially when you’re a scientist doing experiments. You send condolences to the dead men’s families and visit the injured ones in hospitals personally, repeatedly, making sure the media won’t write about it.

But it makes everything you have to deal with _too_ _much_. You feel like you’re losing yourself and you probably (certainly) are.

You might be a genius and billionaire and ladies’ man and a bit of a madman, but you’re just human. You hide behind smiles and suits and you look dashing and fresh and perfect.

When you undress you don’t look at yourself at all.

You’re smarter than before and more ashamed than before but you let yourself relapse anyway while you continue to make the world yours. You eat pizza and pasta and bread and cookies and cakes and burgers and sushi and pies and ice cream and countless other things and there’s a constant heavy weight inside you that makes you feel more sick with yourself than physically ill and you skillfully hide the little weight you’re putting on despite your efforts to not let it show.

You still don’t tell anyone because you should have at the beginning and you didn’t and now it’s too late. You try new ways to get rid of the food you eat and you keep trying them even when the results are partial and silly.

But you’re sneaky and you don’t let anyone notice for full four months and it’s sick how glad you are because of that. You’re feeling guilty about hiding from everyone and it’s making things even worse and you’re spiraling downward and you’re still on the top of the world because while bulimia is a queen behind the curtains, you’re a king on the stage.

 

 

It takes vomiting blood to let Pepper find you curled up in a ball after a really bad binge. Your stomach hurts like hell and your throat hurts and your head hurts, most of your body hurts, but you don’t cry because you’re too angry to do that – not resigned, _angry_ – and you still manage to make a  bad joke about looking as if you were pregnant. Pepper glares and says it’s so, _so_ _inappropriate_ , but really, she should be used to you joking about everything in the most inappropriate moments and in creepy ways.

Sometimes you act as if everything was a joke to you because that’s the best way of coping you know.

It’s 2007 and you’ve been dealing with this shit for over a decade when you meet with a psychiatrist for the first time. Pepper and Happy and JARVIS all talk you into that after the over-three-month-episode, after you tell them everything and you admit to losing pounds before gaining them back before losing them and all the jazz you keep doing that makes you feel more like a joke than like a human.

It’s 2007 and the psychiatrist signs a non-disclosure agreement in addition to doctor-patient confidentiality thing because Pepper insists. Pepper knows what would happen if you were exposed. (You would lie and  smile and brush everything off so convincingly that no one would believe a thing, and then you’d go back home and hurt yourself on one way or another because that’s what you know how to do.)

The doctor tells you there are studies involving fluoxetine that have promising results and help people stop binging and keep themselves under control.

You know that name means Prozac and you raise one eyebrow perfectly.

‘It works in eating disorders,’ she says and the words come out easy and natural and you relax a bit because maybe this means you’re not as much of a freak ad you thought you were. As you thought the _problem_ made you. ‘Besides, if that’s the problem, can you look at me and tell me perfectly honestly that you’ve never felt depressed?’ she asks, looking at you with a soft look in her eyes.

‘Well, you seem to know the answer,’ you reply offhandedly, running a hand through your styled hair and trying to decide if being a responsible adult and dealing with the therapy is better than being childish and running away because you haven’t felt this vulnerable ever before in your life.

(At least not since Ty.)

‘I want you to say it,’ she tells you quietly but firmly.

You look at her, lock your eyes on her and ignore the pain in your throat.

‘No,’ you say and she nods, scribbling something in her notepad.

‘Can you tell me about the first time?’ she asks and you take a moment to reply, but you oblige. It’s been so much time but you remember the first time as vividly as if it were yesterday.

Later you talk causes and she tells you that it might be social pressure or your image of self or stress or your perfectionism or compulsive tendencies or what you called yourself _superficiality_ of everything, honestly, it may be the mix of all that – or nothing. You nod and you don’t talk about your parents, but you know enough about therapy to know you will.

You get a physical and you learn that besides malnutrition and low blood pressure and slight damage to your esophagus everything is pretty fine and will be okay with time and you end up relieved that you haven’t fucked yourself up even more. You ask the doctor how much do you weigh but he refuses to give you a number. You are glad, in a way. 

You visit the psychiatrist twice a week and things slowly, slowly go back under control.

(In your house, inside, you teach yourself to judge foods by calories and by weight and by density and you calculate all details inside you head as you chew. Maybe that’s not healthy, either, but it helps you. Outside, you still wear your 10,000 dollar suits and sunglasses and perfectly trimmed goatee and sometimes Pepper sleeps on the other side of your bed.)

The toughest part is quitting booze because you can’t take fluoxetine and drink. The doctor wants to try it for half a year. It’s most effective help with purging and you never did it as much as some other people. You pretend to sip your alcohol and ignore tiredness and nausea and complete lack of sex drive that are common side effects of the medicine. You focus on work and that’s all you need to stop the world from being boring.

Happy _challenges_ you into getting a 6 months chip, like people in AA do, but you don’t manage to gain one. The medicine helps a bit but not much and it can’t just fix you. You do the half a year and then you stop because side effects outweigh the pros. You know that some people are just like that. You wish so much it worked efficiently but there’s always _something_.

There’s always something going on with you, but when you slip it’s just one time thing and not days weeks months, so that’s what you call progress.

 

 

A few months into therapy, when you are leaving the doctor’s office, there is a man dressed in black and leather waiting behind the door and he stands up when he sees you, walks up to you and speaks in a deep voice.

‘I have a job for you that you’ll love, Mister Stark.’

You stare until the man shifts his gaze because you’re in control here.

‘There’s official consulting hours, ever second Monday between –’

‘I have no time to waste on waiting in lines to meet you,’ the man says firmly and you grimace; there are always endless people who want a meeting with you, that one is true. ‘You will be interested in the proposition I want to make.’

‘Why are you _here_?’ you ask, not waiting for the man to introduce himself, you already have a pretty damn good idea who he is.

‘I had intel that I can find you _here_.’

‘You’re a bastard,’ you declare and march out of the waiting room with the man following you. ‘You do realize that this is an invasion of privacy?’ he asks the man when they are sitting in the back of your limo and Happy is driving you home.

‘No more that you hacking our systems.’

‘That’s different,’ you say and then chuckle humorlessly. ‘Took you long to figure it out.’

‘No, took me long to figure out what to do with _you_ ,’ the man says and you laugh again, taking off you tie and unbuttoning the collar. None of you speaks during the rest of the ride.

‘You know who I am,’ the man declares when you enter the Mansion.

‘Sure I know, _Director_ Fury. I’ve looked through all of Howard’s papers at some point of my life, it was interesting to learn what the man was doing when he was not at home,’ you says, pouring you both a splash of scotch. You won’t be offering him anything more because that would mess up with your plan for the day and you can’t allow that. ‘So, what do you want? I’m a busy man. I have about seven things I’d rather be doing right now.’

‘We need to build a new HQ for S.H.I.E.L.D. –’

‘What am I now, an architect –’

‘A _mobile_ HQ. We need a ship that would house about a thousand man, supplies, spy stuff and our transportation. And we need it to fly.’

‘Ah,’ you sigh, about a hundred ideas already in your head. ‘What is this, a James Bond movie?’

‘We will fund everything you may dream about,’ Fury adds, ignoring your comment entirely.

‘Well, that is certainly an interesting offer,’ you say, observing the man’s almost non-existent body language. ‘Time frame?’

‘The sooner the better.’

‘Just what I like,’ you declare and make a dramatic pause. ‘I’ll take it. Expect first draft of blueprints in two weeks.’

That surprises him a bit, there’s this slightest flinch and a blink, so you give yourself a point for that.

‘I will,’ he says finally and gets up.

‘I would appreciate if you didn’t invade my doctor’s workspace again,’ you tell him when he’s leaving, your words firm. Fury nods, looking as impassive as always, but you’re quite sure he really won’t do that again.

 

 

You juggle your regular work to prepare the blueprints within ten days – being surprisingly early with your projects is fun because you can do that easily and you love seeing people’s faces when they realize you, most of all, are a genius and not just a billionaire asshole. Fury actually whistles when you enter his office in New York S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

‘Tell me what you think,’ you ask him and let yourself sit down uninvited.

‘Half of this tech doesn’t exist,’ he states after a long moment and fixes his one eye on you.

‘ _Yet_ ,’ you stress. ‘You need to think like a futurist, Fury. Things are not gonna work if you stick with what you have. And I _can_ make it work.’

It’s a challenge and challenges keep you alive.

‘I don’t doubt you can’, Fury replies, still watching you, but his gaze is different now. You can’t quite figure out what’s changed, but it feels like he _approves_. You push that thought away thought because of Howard, hey, daddy issues – you’ve been talking about that at your appointments but you still don’t want any thoughts of your father inside your head.

Somehow, the more you interact, the more you get to know secretly S.H.I.E.L.D. from the inside and especially Fury, you feel _welcome_ and it’s strange because your presence is kept secret from about 99% of the agency. The feeling is genuine and pleasant though and you plain enjoy being around and you love the challenge that the Helicarrier – like you named the flying HQ – is proving to be. It keeps you occupied when you need to be kept occupied, that is often, and that helps.

 

 

Sometimes you almost forget.

It’s impossible to forget completely because you have to eat and that, you realize, is what makes this kind of a problem tougher than drinking or drugs or everything else. You can stop drinking or using and you’ll still live, it’s tough but you can just _stop_. You can’t stop eating. You are faced with yourself every single time you eat breakfast, lunch, dinner, every single time you have a snack or stop for a coffee or have a business luncheon.

(Well, you can stop eating but that will end with a tube going straight to your stomach and thousands of creamy calories being pumped into you uncontrollably in a way that makes you feel sick when you just think of it, so you’d rather avoid that option.)

Sometimes you wonder, when you have a mystery meeting at S.H.I.E.L.D., if Fury knows why you were in your doctor’s office, but he never indicates knowledge and you’re not going to ask him. You’re pretty sure your secret is safe, though, because you’re enough of a crazy genius to have other more _expected_ issues.

 

 

You build the flying fortress in a year but you aren’t onboard when it flies for the first time; you decided that you don’t want your involvement with the agency to be official. You enjoy being a power form behind the curtains and honestly, you have enough to deal with anyway.

Stark Industries is a gigantic monster that you keep feeding and when you reach the supposed limits, you get an army contract for IntelliCrops and more medical devices, all of which, tested by the army, will be widely available to help third-world countries. That’s several billion dollars and you know you will make your ideas worth the money.

‘Are you sure you’re not trying to do too much, Tony?’ Pepper asks you one time, when she’s putting make up to cover up the bags under your eyes that are a reminder of sleepless night he spent on reading about mobile scanning devices available on the market so that he can avoid the mistakes and make a better and cheaper one.

‘No,’ you answer, flashing her a smile, a perfectly honest one. ‘This is really good, Pepper. Weapons give us money to grow, but it’s boring. _This_ is good, this is something –’

‘I know,’ she cuts in, rolling her eyes. ‘Stop behaving like seven-year-old on a sugar rush or I’ll smear foundation onto your eye.’

‘Ouch,’ you grin at the thought and keep still.

‘I’m just – I’m just worried, if you don’t manage to – if you fail at something? You just have so many things on your plate –’

‘I won’t _fail_ ,’ you assure her, looking into her eyes. ‘Pepper. You know this. I’m a genius, _really_ , and I have JARVIS and the best R&D team in the world and I could do twice this much work. I don’t fail at work. The only thing I fail at is myself,’ you add because it’s the truth. Pepper flinches almost unnoticeably.

You are right, you don’t fail at work and you do fail at yourself. But only sometimes. Only a little.

 

 

About a year into therapy you tell Rhodey.

Rhodey doesn’t understand at first but you keep talking until he does and he smacks you, hugs you, and then stares at you. You look away a bit shyly – that’s the Tony Stark the world will never see – and offer him an apologetic smile.

‘You should’e told me,’ Rhodey says fiercely, but there are some underlying tones you can’t quite figure out.

‘I’m telling you now,’ you reply and Rhodey’s gaze softens. You don’t have to say anything more because even after months apart he can still read you like an open book. You two argue sometimes and shout at each other sometimes and get mutually annoyed sometimes, but it’s superficial and it passes because you’re like soul brothers.

‘You will tell me _if_ something’s wrong, okay?’ he asks and you swear you will.

JARVIS calls Rhodey – per your request – when you fuck up for the first time in 2009, you binge and throw up too soon because your body is _out of practice_ but it doesn’t make you stop so you binge _again_ until you’re almost crying. You are the luckiest bastard on the Earth because Rhodey is around, he’s stationed at a nearby base at the moment, so he comes over in an hour, locks you in an embrace and lets you take your time to calm yourself down. He doesn’t look disgusted with you at all and you’re surprised because talking is one thing and seeing you like _this_ is something entirely different.

He gives you a belly rub, of all things, and it really does help with the pain and the uncomfortable fullness you almost grew unused to, and you fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you.

When you wake up he asks you to explain this to him and you do and when you’re done speaking, you know that you will have enough strength to keep yourself under control, you just know it.

 

 

Later that year you create IntelliCrops working on a whole different level, helping with the world’s hunger problem like every Miss Universe wants – you know that firsthand, you slept with at least eleven, you’re pretty sure it was eleven – and that makes you the man of the year in one contest and another and there are enough interviews to make your throat sore from talking. There are many more women and men that are one night stand and sometimes several night stand and it’s prefect.

(One of them throws up in your  bathroom a few times and you know she would never talk about _that_ with a stranger, even if it’s Tony Stark himself, so you stay strong and cuddle her extra and slip your doctor’s business card into her wallet.)

Obie is proud of you in his sleek way and you play chess every time he comes by. Fury is proud of you in a strange way you don’t comprehend, but maybe it has something to do with his remote guilt about letting Howard fuck you up. You don’t really care. You don’t let your father interfere with your life from beyond the grave anymore.

Stark Industries rules the markets and never ceases to surprise the Wall Street, reaching the limits and still climbing higher and you add another billions of dollars to your count and jump another few places up in the queue for the world’s wealthiest man contest.

 

 

You never stop seeing your doctor, thought, even when you finally do earn your 6 months chip from Happy.

‘Took you long enough. Congrats, boss,’ Happy tells you, pressing a tiny handmade chip into your hand and then getting you both beer.

‘Over fourteen years,’ JARVIS adds, sounding pleased and reluctant at the same time. Someone could think that he’s pointing out that you’ve been failing for fourteen years, but you know it’s not what he’s saying. ‘You are doing amazing, sir.’

You are beaming.

‘I couldn’t have made it without you, guys. And Pepper,’ you say, a shiver running down your spine because you’re pretty sure you’d be in a _very_ different place right now if it weren’t for them. Locked up somewhere or maybe dead or, if you were lucky, just messing with your body until it would fail and make you stop.

‘Thanks,’ you tell them and you finish your beer in a few slow gulps. ‘But I gotta go. The Jericho won’t build itself,’ you add and disappear into your workshop, still grinning like a madman.

 

 

 


	5. V

Before Afghanistan, you’re (almost) balanced.

In Afghanistan, they feed you rice and goat’s meat and goat’s milk and you’re too busy hurting and saving your and Yinsen’s lives to think about anything else.

After Afghanistan, well, that is a long story.

But, to make it short, you’re _so far_ from balanced. You’re antithesis of balance in all possible ways.

You’re fine for the first few days when you’re being taken care of in American base in Italy. Fine is probably not the right word because you’re in shock and the only thing you care about it not letting too many people see the reactor and not letting anyone get near it without Rhodey in sight. They take care of the almost-heat-stroke, of your sunburns and blisters, of dehydration and malnutrition and all of your wounds.

Rhodey doesn’t leave you alone for more than five minutes.

You fly home a week after they found you. Pepper sends you one of your favorite suit and you put it on in your hospital room, before you get on the plane, and you let Rhodey push you on a wheelchair and help you up inside the army aircraft because arguing with him would be silly. During the flight you spend most of the time in silence, but you can’t fall asleep or relax, you’re rehearsing the little speech you’re gonna give soon, saying the words over and over in your head even though you remember them perfectly after two times.

‘Cheeseburger first,’ you tell Happy and both he and Pepper give you frowny looks, but hey, you’ve been in captivity for three months and you need to erase the murky dry flavor that has almost permanently settled in your mouth.

The cheeseburgers are as awful as you expected them to be and it’s totally glorious.

 

 

Back in Malibu mansion, you send everyone away – that means Happy to his little house and Pepper out of the first floor which is yours only – and you spend the night analyzing the chunk of metal in your chest with JARVIS, the most advanced chunk of metal on the planet, and listening to the ocean.

Swallowing is still a thing with the reactor pushing your insides to strange places, but you basically live off green chlorophyll smoothies for now.

Creating a new, fully functional arc reactor it a must and you spend your days making sure it will be perfect and won’t malfunction, and then you ask Pepper to take out the old one and put the new one in. She gives your half-undressed self a glance that’s a little bit too long, assessing, and then she kinda saves your life.

When you are sure the thing that’s keeping you alive won’t suddenly stop working, you trim your goatee, put on some make-up, dress in a leather jacket and you go to see Rhodey. He is hiding from you because he’s still scared and traumatized in a way different than you – but you recognize it anyway.

He thought you were dead.

He never stopped looking and you love him for that.

He gives you a hard time about the no-weapons and it stings a bit, but you know he’s being pressured by _everyone_ around and he’s at the verge of breaking into pieces. You don’t guard your face, you let him see you vulnerable before you walk away and you know that the next time you’ll see each other, when the whole uproar dies down, none of this will matter.

Then you focus on the suit. It’s the _only_ thing that matters right now and it might be the only thing that’s keeping you sane and focused.

You know that Pepper and Happy and even JARVIS are somehow disturbed by your relentless determination and that the distant look on your face you can’t quite control yet is scaring them, but you leave control for later.

The suit is shaping up as you almost become a recluse, hiding from the world in your mansion and working. You need some new ideas for this and that and they come quickly and easily and you let your mind do its work.

Obie comes by, you get scolded again but you _really_ forgot it was a board meeting. Then you take _one_ slice of the pizza and disappear.

It tastes strange, but you don’t dwell on that because you have to teach yourself how to fly.

When you do fly for the first time, you end up banged by the most graceless landing and you can’t really remember what was it like in the air, you were breathless and fascinated and thinking so fast your head was spinning.

JARVIS unwraps the damaged suit from your body and you wriggle out of your clothes, take a quick shower, put on something clean and patch yourself up.

This time was like a dream. Next time it will be better.

You work on another suit and ignore the one problem that you cannot avoid but you can pretend, as long as the poisoning is not making you too ill to keep going on.

You go to the gala with Pepper.

You go to Gulmira and save those civilians. You talk with Rhodey on the line and he is annoyed with you and scared for you, but you know he’s relieved to see some things about you never change.

You refuse, continuously, to talk with anyone. Not with S.H.I.E.L.D. – and Nick Fury certainly tries, he calls you telling you that he has a job and you wish you had an actual cellphone in your hand so that you could throw it across the room; then Fury sends his agents and you ignore them to the best of your obnoxious abilities – and not with your psychiatrist. She doesn’t specialize in PTSD (which you deny you have but you can’t lie to JARVIS who has to wake you up and talk you out of hyperventilating too many times) and you’re – you’re a different person now.

Everything is different now.

 

 

Then there is Obadiah.

‘Good boy,’ you tell Dummy when he hands you the box containing the old arc reactor that slipped out of your grasp. You want to kiss the bot, hug him, tell him you love him and he’s just fucking _saved your life_ – the gaping hole in your chest, just like in the cave, the empty feeling and the terrible feeling of something crawling towards your heart –

– you almost panic, but you don’t really because they might have Pepper. So you collect yourself, reboot JARVIS (how the _hell_ was he disabled, this is just – you don’t even have words) and fly out.

Obadiah ends up dead and you are Iron Man and then you dodge S.H.I.E.L.D. and everyone else again and go back home.

You strip, take a long shower, feeling as if the dirt and dust and tar from the explosion were still on your skin, and you _look_ at yourself for the first time in months. You are… strange, that’s the best word you can come up with.

You are _forty_.

The realization is sudden and strange and blood rushes in your veins at the thought, making you flushed and clammy and unsure how on earth could you forget. Your birthday was when you were still in captivity and then you never even gave it a thought. It’s December and you are forty and a half and it makes you feel as if you aren’t really yourself.

A familiar feeling that is only remotely scary.

There are scars all over your body that haven’t been there before, small ones from the attack and torture and work with crude tools and the escape – and the big scar tissue that’s completely invisible because it’s inside your chest, the edges of your body around the reactor casing seem smooth and nicely healed, it’s an almost aesthetically pleasing view, but you know what’s hiding inside, you know what’s invisible.

You’re regaining the muscle tone you lost during your stay in Afghanistan and recovery but your body still feels sharp and soft at the same time, and you realize that you are almost unhealthily lean and you try to push those thoughts out of your mind but your mind doesn’t want to cooperate.

For the first time in decades, being _lean_ isn’t a part of the integrity of your person because it’s forced and it’s alien and that realization leaves you bewildered. You’re not sure at all if you should be grateful or frightened.

You are not sure this is yourself.

(You feel pretty much like you’ve lost yourself when you were desperately trying to take a breath before more of that dirty water managed to get inside your nose and throat while someone had their hand wrapped around the wires that went straight into your chest so that you wouldn’t accidentally die; when you couldn’t think of anything but air and when you said you would build them the Jericho.

You have not been Tony Stark ever since. You’ve only been a copy.)

You can’t stop staring.

But because you are a reminiscent of Tony Stark and you still have this luck: you are dying and you have an A.I. that kinds of reads your mind.

‘I think we need to talk about a subject you have been avoiding, sir,’ JARVIS speaks up, making you flinch a bit and cover the reactor with your hands instinctively.

‘Huh, so you wanna talk food?’ you ask, playing for time. Doesn’t work.

‘No, sir, I want to _talk palladium_ ,’ JARVIS replies and you can hear – you can almost physically feel the italics.

‘No can do, buttercup.’

‘You cannot avoid the subject forever.’

‘There’s no point in talking, J, baby, since there’s about nothing I can do, nothing more than I’m doing already. Do you have ideas? To make this stop? You can run all the elements for me, but it’s not gonna work and we know it.’

‘… I just do not know what the world will be like when you are not here, sir.’

‘Guilt-tripping me now?’ you murmur, but it’s not an accusation, it’s affectionate and it’s a consolation or as much of one as you are able to muster up.

‘Just stating the fact,’ JARVIS replies and you shiver, tear your eyes away from the mirror and go to sleep, dreaming of red and gold and sand and explosions.

 

 

At Stark Expo opening the crowd screams when you step out onto the scene and when you talk and you must make an effort not to flinch. You have a wide smile plastered on you face instead and they drink the words off your lips and them you disappear and stare at the increasing numbers on your one of a kind medical toy.

The next day there is a Senate hearing and you swear in the courtroom making Pepper cringe, play with Hammer and Stern and the tech and then impose yourself on the media in the back of the room reminding them how you privatized world peace. When you are done you finally get to eat the chili dog you sent Pepper to get you and – she’s so annoyed with you that she doesn’t eye you with concern as you chew and swallow.

You dismiss Agent’s attempt at talking with you again and shove your second dog at him so that he would shut up. It’s casual and easy and you don’t even think about it.

Then you work because you might be dying but there are those few things you still wanna do _before_.

You work on the suit and still work on the reactor even though there’s nothing to be done and you play with your babies as much as you can and you live off those infernal green smoothies that make you feel like gagging but you need them _more_ than the air. (They basically add up to all your calories and you don’t really think about that.)

 

 

Pepper is made the CEO of Stark Industries, you drink some champagne and then she’s off managing the mess you’ve created and you still spend your days enclosed in the small space of your house trying to figure out what is left of you while you’re simultaneously and invisibly disappearing.

One morning when you are boxing with Happy – you two have a nice training regimen – Pepper enters the room with a red-headed woman that is supposed to be from legal but you know that she’s from S.H.I.E.L.D.

You are not supposed to know and you are sure Nick Fury knows you know.

You both pretend to be oblivious.

You sign the documents, give her your _impression_ and make a few inappropriate comments, dodging _Natalie’s_ looks every time she tries to subtly stare at you for too long.

Then Monaco happens and you are perfectly aware that you have so little time, the palladium in your body is starting to really take its toll and you just want to forget about everything and rest and have Pepper within your arm’s reach. You realize that out of nowhere and that’s funny because you’re a genius and you’re observant and you focus on details and you’ve been flirting with her for a goddamn decade and suddenly all you want is her body wrapped around you.

(Around you, not around your body, around the real you that’s not even here, if that makes sense.)

You make her an omelet and mention that you could be in Venice – you leave out how much longing you feel at the sole thought of Venice right now, at the thought of pretending that everything is fine – and Pepper looks as you as if you were out of your mind.

Pretty accurate.

As soon as you are back at home, you go to your workshop, leaving Pepper and Natalie to deal with SI business again and you listen to everything that JARVIS has to report about Vanko. You can’t make yourself move, even though you know it’s time to change the reactor’s core and JARVIS reminds you a few times until you silence him. You could play a great big genius in front of the man and in front of the whole world – a superhero job, like you’re supposed to do – but here curled up in one of your old cars, listening to your frantic heartbeat and ignoring the hunger clenching you from the inside, you are just one tiny broken man.

Rhodey enters the workshop and he sees you like that and he doesn’t know what’s going on – you can only imagine what kind of thoughts must be running through his head right now – but he manages to move and help you out and doesn’t let you fall to the ground.

‘What are you looking at?’ you ask him although you know the answer. You’ve both been in similar positions before: you almost wanting spill your guts, Rhodey about to drink your every word. Different circumstances, yes, but it was all the same. (Okay, so maybe you were dying a little bit less back then.)

‘I'm looking at you,’ Rhodey states anyway. ‘You wanna do this whole lone gunslinger act and it's unnecessary. You don't have to do this alone,’ he says and you hear so many words. You hear _you’ve done that before_ and _we only want to help_ and _I’m worried_  and _why don’t you ever trust me_.

You tell him you wish you could believe him and that he has to trust you.

‘Contrary to popular belief I know exactly what I'm doing,’ you add and if you weren’t half dead, you’d both burst out laughing because that’s such a joke.

Or maybe it isn’t because every time you lose control, every time you lose grasp, you are perfectly aware of it and you let it happen. They can tell you it’s not your fault but it’s always your fault in one way or another.

Rhodey lets it go because he is an angel and he knows that if he pushes, you’re only going to run.

 

 

You birthday is exactly as much of a clusterfuck as you planned and even though it hurts so much to see Pepper and Happy and Rhodey so disappointed with you, so angry with you, _leaving_ you, you know it’s for the best.

Then, all of sudden, you are completely alone and there’s no one to coddle you and you check the palladium levels and it’s so high that you’re not sure you even have a week, so you put on the suit again and fly a few dozen miles, despite JARVIS’ anger at you for making the poisoning worse than it already is by prolonged use of the reactor. You stop by a donut joint, Randy’s Donuts or whatever, that you’ve been to maybe once or twice in your life but you remember it was as good as small town places go.

You step inside in a suit, flash a blinding smile at the shy girl behind the counter. You ask her for a box of twelve, glazed with chocolate and white chocolate, and you leave her a tip ten times bigger than the bill.

If you’re going to die so soon you could as well eat as many fucking donuts as you want because it won’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

Some time ago 12 donuts would have made you laugh, they would have been a _dessert_ after a binge – but now, with your body messed up in all possible ways, it’s a big thing.

You eat until you feel the familiar sensation that you haven’t experienced in months – your insides are still tender-ish from being pushed around – and there is such a familiarity to this that it makes you feel warm and almost makes you fall apart and it’s insane.

The stages are engraved into your being; discovering how they never disappeared fills you with morbid fascination. First it’s being sated, then it’s the pleasant fullness and then the uncomfortable fullness and then nausea and then pain and by the time S.H.I.E.L.D. has secured the perimeter you’re taking a bite of the last donut and you’re completely and utterly disgusted with the lack of control and with making yourself into an animal _again_ , and you can’t see your achingly full body but you can definitely feel it. (But you enjoyed it. For about the first twenty seconds.)

Fury asks you to _exit the donut_ which is a bit hilarious. You take a moment before doing so but moving right now it _not_ a good idea because you’re feeling sick from making yourself eat so much. The first thing you do when you’re down on the earth is walk past the director and go throw up in the small public WC; you haven’t done that in ages.

You let them guess if it’s the palladium poisoning or the hangover making you disappear in the bathroom but you don’t even try to fool _yourself_ , there is no point.

Throwing up is, admittedly, completely new experience with the way you are now.

Clean up, make yourself as presentable as possible, and you’re sitting in front of Fury. You joke around because that’s what you do, your impeccable asshole act, but Fury doesn’t buy it and he stares at you a little bit too long as if he was studying you. (You take exactly two sips of that cheap coffee to wash the taste of acid out of your mouth.) Natalie – Natasha comes in and you pretend to be surprised and do your best to annoy Fury and then you _are_ genuinely surprised by the shot she gives you.

It makes the heaviness and the fog in your head and the nausea go away all at once. You can breathe. Then Fury tells you that you haven’t tried everything and you freeze inside.

Lithium dioxide is not a cure, of course it’s not, but suddenly there is more than 160 hours left for you and you’ve got work to do.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> I would love to hear what you think about this piece <3 And - the chapter count it final, so we're more than halfway there :)


	6. VI

You meet Fury back at the Mansion and you’re dressed to mock each other. You’re sipping water in your dressing gown and Fury comes inside in a leather coat that makes you snicker despite how sick the situation is.

Fury tells you your dad loved you and you laugh internally and you let your disbelief show. You know Howard was one of the founding members of S.H.I.E.L.D, too, but you shouldn’t so you pretend to be surprised. Then Fury goes away, without actually explaining how the hell you are supposed to save yourself, and leaves you with a babysitter that won’t go away.

You listen to Howard’s talk, throw a few things around the workshop because you’re _angry_ and then you take your car and drive to Pepper, getting strawberries on the way because it feels like it means something.

Pepper is still mad at you and as much as you’d like her to stop (and wrap her arms around you) you understand. You play silly, argue a bit and let her go and then you throw the strawberries across the room, too – funny thing, how Pepper knows more than everything about you and food and you couldn’t remember one little detail – and you take the Expo model home.

You wanted to tell her you loved her because you still don’t know how you’re supposed to live past this week, but the words melted away.

JARVIS creates a manipulatable projection of the Expo for you and between the two of you it doesn’t take long to figure out the new element. Synthesis is a tad harder but now that you know the solution is within your reach there’s _nothing_ that can stop you.

The new element tastes like coconut and you realize that you haven’t felt that particular flavor for _ages_. (The metal part is more familiar, it’s almost like blood.)

Vanko calls you from behind the grave and the only thing you want right now is to sleep for a fortnight, maybe that would be enough for you to make the exhaustion go away and for your body to regenerate after being poisoned for a year. No such luck.

You end up fighting with Vanko-upgraded Hammer drones and, of course, Rhodey is there because he’s always there for you when you need him even though you don’t deserve that.

When you are done – when you are safe – you kiss Pepper and it’s more than you were dreaming of. You spend the night sleeping next to her, you’re both too exhausted for sex or making our or anything really, and in the morning you drag yourself to have a pleasant talk with Nick Furyone more time.

Natasha wrote _compulsive_ _behavior_ and _prone to self-destructive tendencies_ and those two are to true that you want to laugh, they don’t even know. Then she added _textbook_ _narcissism_ and you take a moment to relish that and then say _agreed_ because that’s what you want the world to think, that’s what you’ve been working on for decades.

Everything you are _not_ is behind a curtain and happens behind a closed door.

Pepper is still cleaning up the mess at the company – not to mention the mess at the Expo – so you spend the days working with your babies and trying to believe that you are really, really gonna live.

You try to avoid thinking about the fact that _you_ will have to clean up the mess _you_ are and no one else is going to do that for you.

 

 

Things are fine with Pepper and Rhodey and everyone, you’re ruling Stark Industries from the backstage, you make the arc reactor technology public and work on synthesizing more vibranium and creating normal-sized arc reactor that would be a reliable and efficient green power source.

Sometimes you wake Pepper up at night when she’s dreaming about the day when she had to kill Stane or about the drone attacks and you kiss her until she falls asleep again, this time calmly. You don’t ever fall asleep again. You stay with her until you are sure she won’t wake up and then sneak out of the bed. Pepper is used to you sleeping so little.

The transition from living on green smoothies and random items to normal goes almost easily.

You like to lie to yourself and therefore everyone else that things are fine but they aren’t because no matter how much you try there’s always something missing.

You are 41 now.

You are 41 and you have a girl and friends and all the money you could want and you even do some jobs for S.H.I.E.L.D. when you are too bored with the daily dose of physics and engineering your own work provides – and yet there is always some restlessness lingering in your body, you feel as if you were waiting for something, as if you were supposed to be somewhere else, as if everything you’ve built was just a house of cards.

The feeling is making you sick.

There is no putting it into words so you keep silent and try to get hold of yourself.

You don’t.

Your body gets used to the way it works now but you don’t get used to your body. Maybe because it still doesn’t feel like it’s _yours_. You don’t feel like you are you. You feel like it’s all too beautiful to be real, like it’s all a game. You hold Pepper closely to make sure she’s breathing.

Everyone tells you that you are doing fine and you know you are. Fine. Fine.

That’s not enough. You need more, you have to be more, you have to be everything, you are almost everything but not really. There is a vision of yourself that has always been embedded in your brain, _always_ , and something is _always_ missing.

(Sometimes, you hate the world because everything is laced with flavors.)

When your body heals up almost completely from all the misadventures you’ve had, you find yourself fighting your urges every single second. They are subtle and delicate and almost graceful and they are unexplainable.

You do a good job running away until you don’t: maybe that’s what you’ve been so restless about, you’ve known from the beginning this was bound to happen and you were just waiting because you’re never strong enough.

Pepper is out of country and Happy is with her – she’s _his_ boss now – and you are designing the special connectors that you will need to plug the tower’s electric installation to the reactor.

You eat dinner, as planned and then you go to your study. It’s the only place in the house where JARVIS doesn’t lurk; even you need privacy sometimes. You look around and you realize that there is food around that you must have been unconsciously bringing here and that makes you terrified because you are Tony Stark and you _don’t_ lose control of your head. It’s the one thing that matters: your mind. And you’ve betrayed yourself.

You laugh until your chest hurts and you might be crying a bit but you’d never admit that.

You know exactly what you are doing but you can’t stop. You hide from JARVIS because making him see you like _that_ only hurts him. (This is not your body. This is not _you_. It’s impossible for a human being to be something it hates so much.) You cannot stop yourself and it’s making it almost impossible to breathe.

You want to make everything right for Pepper, you want to make everything right and easy and straightforward, without issues and craziness and problems and you just want to rest but you cannot.

There is a package of chocolate bars sitting in front of you and before you realize your fingers are working on unpacking it with short skillful motions.

It tastes like nothing before.

(You want to run but you don’t.)

(You want to call Pepper but you don’t.)

(You want to be like a fucking normal person but you can’t.)

It’s been sixteen years, you realize.

(You know there are other people like you but it doesn’t make you any less repulsive.)

You eat the chocolate bars and by the time you’re done with fourth, you feel familiar grim determination settle inside you: it _really_ doesn’t matter much far you go, now that you’ve started this. It’s… easier, in a way. You just don’t think.

There are only sweet and salty snacks in the room and they make you feel _heavy_ soon, even before your stomach isn’t full. It a repetition of a familiar process, like with the donuts, it’s like muscle memory. Something you never forget.

You observe with morbid fascination the way your body is changing, you feel as if it was fat and dirty even though you know, rationally, that it’s not, the only thing that really happens is that your belly is bulged and swollen and you stare at it as you eat until you feel sick.

Maybe it’s a punishment. You’ve been though this endless times with everyone who knows about this particular issue, but that’s how the world works. You’ve learned that ages ago. When you fail, you need to be punished. There is no quantifying to failure, it’s not any zero-to-ten system. It’s zero-one, it’s yes or no, it’s black or white.

When you fail, you fail and you can as well let yourself go.

You live every fucking second of your life trying to control it but when you’ve already failed you let you defenses drop.

So then you throw up and swallow some laxatives because your body won’t deal with all the carbohydrates by itself – and you go to sleep.

 

 

The next day you make one of the bravest decisions in your whole fucking life and you tell Pepper as soon as she is back from her trip. She looks so sad but and she doesn’t pretend not to be. She takes your hand, the documents and projects you were supposed to see forgotten, and she leads you to your bedroom.

She undresses you and herself to underwear and drags you to the bed and she rubs your belly like Rhodey did because she knows it’s still hurting you and this helps and all you can do is nestle your head in the crook of her neck and pray to whichever nonexistent god thanking that you have someone like that next to you. She asks you to talk. You talk until your throat hurts and you can’t anymore.

You tell her how scared you are.

Pepper listens and then she kisses about every inch of your body and you try to make her stop but she doesn’t listen to you.

‘I’ll never be able to tell you enough how much I love you the way you are,’ she tells you. ‘And I would love you all the same if you were all bones and angles and if you put on fifty pounds because _it doesn’t matter_ and I – I know my words have little significance. But I wanted you to know – I just want you to be healthy. And happy.’

‘I’m never happy,’ you murmur so quietly that the shame in your voice is almost inaudible.

‘I know,’ Pepper replies and hugs you more tightly.

 

 

You start meeting with your psychiatrist again. Theoretically the slip-up could be a one-time thing but it isn’t and you know it. She asks you if you know why you relapsed. You tell her everything that is in your head, despite how irrational it feels.

She tells you to sit down and figure out what you want/need to be like to stop thinking that way. You meet once a week and you bring her words and sentences but it’s never a full answer.

‘We have time,’ she says truthfully.

Maybe you’re not doing a good job because it still happens ( _often_ ) but you’re trying.

Stark Tower is ready for the interior decorating. You travel to a few remote places with Pepper and make sure you have at least a few hours to get lost in crowd after business meetings. You open factories and invent things and play all your games.

(You also count calories with JARVIS and eat exactly what you are supposed to and when you don’t stick to the plan you _manage_. This goes unnoticed, as always. Dangerous game.)

 

 

In early May of 2012 you move to New York with Pepper and you inhabit the only space that is completely ready to go, which is your personal apartment with the workshop a few levels below.

You don’t let the illness rule your life. It might have stolen a big chunk of _everything_ , but you work your way around it and you re-learn how to joke about it and how to talk about it and even when you slip – some moments you would have to be literally physically incapacitated _not_ to binge and then purge – you’re not so afraid anymore. Even if you slip _repeatedly_ , you’re not so afraid anymore. You don’t exactly know how it works but it does.

In late May you finally launch the tower’s arc reactor and she lights up like Christmas but _with more you_. As soon as you land JARVIS tells you Agent Coulson is on the line.

That’s how, despite Fury’s words, you end up being a part of the Avengers Initiative.

You kiss Pepper and let her go and then you learn all about thermonuclear astrophysics there is to learn. Easy.

Then you meet the other heroes, eat some blueberries, save the world and you almost die.

Your call to Pepper fails and suddenly _nothing_ matters. Every single worry, every single problem, every single issue you’ve encountered in your life is _nothing_. It’s heart-wrenching and you try not to think about but instead you try to project Pepper’s face as you close your eyes and fall.

But you wake up, see Loki off, and go to that shawarma joint with your team. You eat a normal meal – you can barely control yourself – and then you throw it up because you have a concussion.

Three days later the headaches and nausea are almost gone and no one can see the one big purple bruise your body is when you wear your favorite light grey suit and go to say bye to Loki and Thor. You say goodbye to the team, too, set a meeting in a few weeks when everyone has relaxed and got pretty much fixed, and you go back home.

 

 

Now you have to get your too fast breathing under control, try to sleep without dreaming about the other side of the wormhole, and build everything from the beginning again.

Pepper talks you out of your nightmares now. Or JARVIS, when she is too tired to wake up when you toss around.

So you’ve done some pretty crazy shit before and you’ve almost died and all the jazz and you now develop an anxiety issue, on the top of everything else.

And you _don’t know_ how to put it into words. It’s just that sometimes you feel like you’re surrounded by an empty cold space and you’re going to fall and there will be no one to catch you and it happens when you wake up form a nightmare as well as when you’re sitting in your comfortable leather chair during a board meeting. The actual surroundings don’t matter.

It keeps repeating.

‘Sir, I am told things are easier when you share them with someone,’ JARVIS tells you two weeks after the attack when you’re standing in the shower, water and steam engulfing your body and it’s a great feeling because it’s a contradiction of what you brain keeps reminding you of (cold black nothingness).

‘Yeah, and who told you that, Pepper?’

‘I believe it was you, sir, a few years ago when I had concerns regarding your… mortality.’

You can’t help the bubble of laughter escaping from your chest.

‘Smartass,’ you tell JARVIS, but he is right. You did say that.

‘I did share my concerns with you. You are being hypocritical, sir,’ JARVIS adds.

‘My A.I. is teaching me the fairness of interpersonal relations, I don’t even know how this things happen to me,’ you murmur, the amusement helping you forget why exactly did you run here from your workshop.

‘I believe you created the problem,’ JARVIS says smugly and you grin.

You tell your psychiatrist. She wants to see you three times a week instead of the one meeting you’ve been having recently and you agree. She also wants you to consider medicine if the anxiety doesn’t get better.

It doesn’t get better and you tell her that two weeks later and you talk medication. She wants you on buspirone because, contrary to older types of meds, it has less side effects and it doesn’t cause changes in appetite or weight and that’s important.

‘It might take ten to twenty days for you to start feeling the change, though. It is one of the slower acting medicines,’ she informs you. ‘Are you sure that is all right? We can try with something that would kick in immediately.’

You consider that for a moment, but – it’s not _that_ bad, the anxiety. It’s nothing life-threatening, you don’t feel suicidal or something like that (too much almost-dying in your personal history, thanks) so you tell her you’ll try buspirone.

When you come back home, you sit down with Pepper and Happy and tell them everything, too, because so far you’ve been dodging questions and their stares, and you show them the medication. They seem so proud of you for talking to your doctor even if you didn’t talk to them.

(Now you have to wait for the meds to kick in as you’re doing your double jobs as Tony Stark and as a superhero rebuilding New York.)

 

 

Then one night a few days later – or maybe it’s morning already, it’s 3 a.m. and it’s starting to dawn – when you are is your workshop, fixing some minor issues of your second-newest suit and ranting random things to your bots, JARVIS makes his equivalent of a polite chuckle and you stop your stream of words.

‘Yeah, J?’

‘Sir, it seems prudent to inform you that Agent Barton has just approached the tower’s main entrance.’

You blink at Dummy and raise an eyebrow.

‘Yeah? Then let him in.’

‘It does not seem like he will enter – he looks distressed, sir.’

‘Then invite him in, baby,’ you say, putting your tools away and wiping your hands on your working pants, and then you go meet Barton at the door.

That’s how it begins.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading  
> &  
> I don' think I can thank everyone who gives be feedback on this story. Seriously, I love you guys for every single word you offer me 'cause this story is difficult. So I'm glad that you're still here :)


	7. VII

Clint is messed up and you can tell that easily because you recognize the signs. He’d have to be seriously superhuman no to be a mess though, after what he’s been through and after his handler and best friend died.

You still can’t believe in that yourself.

‘Thanks for having me,’ Barton says and you offer him a Stark grin.

‘I’m a billionaire, I can keep some strays around,’ you reply, gaining a short amused chuckle from your teammate and it feels like a win. ‘Anyone following you?’

‘Natasha may come by when she’s back from Asia. I didn’t tell her I’ll be – I didn’t know I’d be staying here. Or anywhere around. I didn’t exactly… tell anyone at the HQ. So thanks for this.’

‘Well, we did save the world together,’ you remind Barton in a fake thoughtful tone. You show him to guest room a few levels below the penthouse and just then you notice he only has a backpack on him. ‘You need something?’

‘If there is running water and a bed and no cameras with psychiatrists glued to them staring at me as I sleep, I’m cool.’

You glare at him for a long moment thinking about what you should say. Barton is standing unmoving, with the backpack still on, as if he was afraid you would just change your mind.

‘Well, there _is_ JARVIS and he might wake you up if you scream nightmares,’ you decide to say. Barton’s head snaps up. ‘We have practiced protocols for that,’ you add and his eyes shine in understanding.

‘That’s ok,’ he replies, voice harsh, and you leave the room.

Then you send Butterfingers who is the most civilized and social of your bots to deliver some food to the guest rooms. He comes back holding an origami crown in his claw as delicately as possible.

 

 

You don’t see Barton for the next week because you leave for Australia at 8 a.m., Pepper at your side, and you instruct JARVIS to provide Barton everything he might need and some more and to talk to him because you don’t know when will Natasha come back. JARVIS won’t let any S.H.I.E.L.D. goons in.

You used to love Australia but it’s not that much fun since you’ve had enough of desert time to last for a lifetime and here all the factories are situated on the sandy outskirts of the cities. Pepper holds your hand so tightly that it almost hurts but it keeps you focused and not wandering through strange paths of your own head.

‘Is it that bad?’ she asks you when no one is listening. You make this one special face and then you make an unsure one.

‘Nah,’ you tell her. Almost truth. ‘I’m thinking about Barton on the top of _everything_.’

‘JARVIS is keeping an eye on him.’

‘I know,’ you answer, thinking about everything that JARVIS told you so far, assuring you that Agent Barton is getting used to the tower and Agent Romanov is not around. ‘But JARVIS still doesn’t have a set of hands.’

Pepper kisses you. You are officially a couple now, so it’s fine. No food for tabloids.

‘Mhm. And we need to get those three contracts because it’s a lot of money and you’re spending more than board is comfortable with for the rebuilding of New York.’

‘I know,’ you reply and go back to work.

You do all this corporate stuff and you ace it. Then you come back home and crash for fourteen hours to reset your internal clock.

When you wake up it’s early afternoon and Pepper brings you a cup of coffee.

‘You need to get downstairs,’ she says. ‘Natasha is back.’

‘So you’re on first name basis, hmm? Should I be jealous?’

‘It’s not a good time, Tony,’ she replies in a voice that makes you get ready in exactly ninety six seconds and then you follow her to the guest room level where you meet _three_ people.

‘S.H.I.E.L.D. is never out of tricks, is it?’ you state and everyone stares you a bit and then you clasp your hand around Phil’s and give him a firm handshake. ‘Good that I have superfluous rooms for zombies and assassins.’

‘They tell me you have your own personal brand of pain meds, too,’ Phil replies smoothly, straight-faced, but you want to do hit your head against a wall for not noticing how transparent the man looks. Life-saving pioneer surgeries, you’ve been there.

‘Sure thing,’ you reply. ‘Are you all like runaways from S.H.I.E.L.D. now?’

‘We’re all on medical leave and it will stay like that as long as needed,’ Natasha replies coolly, but there is a hint of amusement in her voice, you think.

You organize the medicine to be delivered to Phil and the rooms to be decorated to the other’s liking while you juggle between some work for SI and finishing electrical installation projects for two more arc reactor-powered towers that will soon spring in Los Angeles and in Chicago; you are too mad at Fury to talk to him right now. Or ever.

 

 

Then the team has to save the world again – no, scratch that, maybe that’s an exaggeration. It’s just a domestic issue and you fight a group of terrorists with your whole band and end up battered but victorious. S.H.I.E.L.D. flies you all back home with a silly jet and you swear you’re going to make a better one for Avengers’ use only because this is a joke compared to how nice flying in the suit is.

Back at home, you leave the team downstairs and basically run away, put on another suit and fly for two hours before you stop being jittery. You’ve been feeling he anxiety medication working a bit but not enough and you still find yourself breathing too fast and leaning against walls when you feel dizzy so you just got a dosage change yesterday, but it will take a few days to kick in again.

After that time, Rogers just doesn’t leave.

‘Hey you,’ you greet him two days later at 5 a.m. when you’re heading for an R&D experiment room downstairs ‘cause it has some machinery too big to fit in your personal space. The elevator has transparent walls – for you only – and you tell JARVIS to stop when you see Cap.

‘Good morning,’ he replies, looking awfully young in his sweats and a plain white t-shirt that hugs his chest tightly.

‘Ask JARVIS to get you some pancakes for breakfast, my bots have perfected them and you’ll love them,’ you add and disappear. Having them around is fun as long as they don’t interfere with your busy business time and don’t barge in your personal space upstairs, not that JARVIS would let them.

(You ate your 520 kcal breakfast with one little pill like a good boy you are and now it’s time for work.)

You play business shark for the rest of the day, beginning with 9 a.m. meeting you have scheduled with some strange man because it’s your consulting hours. He is probably a maniac but you buy his idea because you can make it better and it’s gonna work; he’ll have enough money to support himself for a lifetime and you’ll have fun.

At the end of the day you have a dinner meeting with investors that you really need to charm, so you put on your burgundy suit and make up and you make sure to look like 200% of yourself and they laugh at your jokes and eat from your hand and you might be great business buddies for the foreseeable future.

‘We will be happy to have some input into making this project work and the product widely available,’ Mrs. Larson – Clara – says, tapping at the thin paper laying on a wooden table with her red nail.

‘I’m sure you will regret nothing,’ you reply, raising an eyebrow.

‘I already regret _something_ ,’ she tells you, leaning over the table and ignoring her partner’s bored demeanor. You offer her a mysterious smile and try not to think that she wouldn’t fancy a fantasy of you with all those scars included that much.

‘Excuse me,’ you tell her and go to the bar and get you three drinks, non-alcoholic for you.

When you finally leave the modern-and-organic-expensive-self-service restaurant – it seems to be the thing now, given the number of reservations – you shed your burgundy jacket and stay in the elegant pants and creamy shirt and sunglasses. It’s July and it’s still bright despite the relatively late hour and you get into your car and drive to a club. You drink soda and watch people play cards and smoke cigars and you years for a glass of whiskey but that’s not a good idea.

You come back home late and go to Happy’s room and ask him to keep an eye on you because you don’t think you can keep your hands in your pockets.

Happy makes you watch _Downton Abbey_ until you fall asleep.

(You still binge the next day and when you go to see your doctor you are hurting and so, so angry with yourself. She understands. She tells you to keep working on figuring out what do you need to be in order to make it right. You have no fucking idea at this point.)

 

 

In the meantime, you do create a special jet for the team and you go save this or that piece of the universe from bad guys and you work.

One week you and Pepper are in England, the other time you’re in India and she is at home and soon you’re out again, signing contracts for first Stark Tower in Tokyo because Japan needs one and you need you name to shine over the gigantic city.

The anxiety medicine works well on the current dosage and you don’t really panic. Sometimes some thoughts won’t leave your head but you don’t hyperventilate and you don’t run out of the room smiling and pretending you’re just being an ass.

Your body is still alien and you’re still trying to fix yourself.

Objectively, you know – if you ignore the scars – you look good. You even know that subjectively, but it doesn’t matter much because looking good isn’t enough.

You’ve already changed the world so much and it’s not enough. Your hands are full and you’re managing everything at once and it works but it’s not enough.

Your psychiatrist asks you what would be enough.

‘If I had an idea, there wouldn’t be a problem,’ you snap. She’s used to that.

 

 

The team comes together on the side – sans Bruce who still refuses to come by, but he does check some calculations you send him and sends them back ignoring your silly _poke me_ comments; you do feel like the consultant you are because they are constantly together and you’re constantly living your complex life. It’s fine. You start to call them by their names by mid-August.

One night you have amazing sex with Pepper but you can’t fall asleep later – that’s probably buspirone’s fault – so you lay next to get with a hand on her chest, concentrating as hard as possible on the rises and the falls and making sure that she’s alive and that you’re not just dreaming because your own body doesn’t feel real enough.

You fall asleep half an hour before you have to wake up for a conference. Pepper stares at you when she puts on make-up on your tired face but you don’t feel like talking. You don’t feel like anything, really, you wish you could just hide in your workshop today and work on your cars until your hands would be too tired to move.

But you push those thought away, put on your smile and kiss Pepper goodbye.

During the conference, it’s like you’re the only person in the room because you talk science and your brain is something incredible and yes you have it insured because other people can insure their butts and noses so you can insure your brain.

Then there is the relaxing part of the meeting with a buffet and you realize you really are an idiot in so many ways because you don’t even know _when_ you eat too much – that’s what everyone does when there’s a buffet, right? – and you’re sure no one else noticed because you don’t spend more than 5 minutes with one person.

It’s the same deal as always.

You end up eating even more because it’s the same old game, then you throw up (since your binges became _occasional_ , you always throw up, no need to run yourself to death or something) and go back home and you don’t tell anyone. You silently freak out during sex with Pepper because your body doesn’t feel like it’s you, it’s the only part of yourself that you fail to control, that you fail to shape to your liking, the only part of you that betrays you.

There is no time to tell Pepper in the morning – you’re not sure you would, anyway – because there’s an assemble call. Before you get onto the flight to Argentina you have JARVIS reschedule the three meetings you were supposed to have within the next two days.

The call comes at 4:36 a.m. so when you’re all settled on the jet and in the air, it’s apparently time for breakfast. (You don’t deserve food.) You ate more than enough yesterday and you need to make it even, you know you shouldn’t try not eating but it feels so right. So you sit in front of a holographic screen and browse some data for a few minutes before they notice you’re not _participating._

‘You gonna eat something, Stark?’ Clint asks around the protein bar he’s munching on and you try not to wince, you shouldn’t even notice what he is eating, you know you shouldn’t care.

‘No,’ you answer quickly, ignoring the hollow feeling in all your body, not only your stomach.

‘Whatever,’ Clint replies, shrugging, and goes back to his food.

‘Protocol xb-0-3, sir,’ JARVIS’ soft voice fills the space and everyone looks up, making you huff with amusement. Then they look at you and you keep your head down, sighing.

You know JARVIS is right. You know not eating is nothing more than going back into the spiral which can be avoided. If you do try enough.

You rub your eyes, take a long breath, steady your face and then look up at your teammates.

‘Anyone got fresh blueberries here?’ you ask, by some miraculous power keeping your voice from trembling.

They shake their heads for no.

‘I dunno how you do that, how can you not have blueberries at hand, it’s like a crime against the humanity and your personal health, didn’t you know they have so many antioxidants that they might keep you almost as pretty as I am,’ you rant, you thoughts somewhere else. 

(Fresh blueberries, 57kcal/100g. Dried blueberries, 323kcal/100g. The numbers are embedded into your head and the conversion and comparison comes naturally, you don’t even think about it consciously. You only sprinkle the oatmeal with berries instead of adding the usual big handful, to keep the calorie count almost identical.)

You eat almost all of the oatmeal despite the heavy guilt but it’s progress and while JARVIS doesn’t say anything, you know his little servers are bursting with pride.

You catch some human-trafficking gangsters and save several lives and Iron Man disposes of a few hundred thousand dollars-worth of drugs.

 

 

When you come back, it’s after three days of being in constant crazed motion because the cartel you were taking care of was a insanely big thing. And they had Stark Industries weapons which made you see red and oversee every single piece of the operation personally, making sure all the arms will be taken care of.

When you come back you feel different. You feel lighter and you _know_ you are (a tiny bit) lighter and you enjoy the feeling to a sick level. But it helps you understand something, or maybe you’ve always known but only now you can acknowledged this.

You tell your doctor.

‘I want to be a homogenous person,’ and she blinks and fixes her eyes on you. ‘I want to be a whole and when – when I gain weight it disturbs the harmony because it’s something out of my control. It shatters the image. It brings everything I’ve built down. I know it’s silly and teenage-y and, y’know, all that, but I guess it works like that.’

‘Are the periods during which you gained weight associated with some negative experiences?’ she asks you.

It’s homework.

You spend the sleepless night petting Dummy and then sitting inside one of your old cabriolets, with music almost blasting your eardrums, and you think. You think about your memorable four months of _really_ _bad time_ when you couldn’t look at the mirror because you saw a stranger even more than ever before (your second highest weight but you don’t let yourself think numbers). You think about your longer binges before and binge-free _and_ restricting-free times and you go back to after-Rumiko and to after-Ty (your highest weight and you _certainly_ don’t let yourself think numbers) and to the first time you realized you _hated_ what you had become, even though there must have been something inside your head earlier because that’s not how normal people think.   

You think about college, being 14 and doing interviews for world’s most prestigious science magazines and wanting to make your _classmates_ respect you because they saw you as short, baby faced, and mouthy. You think about deciding you’re gonna prove everyone wrong and be the most amazing person in the world. You think about Howard smacking your hands at your birthday party because getting the second piece of cake was unbecoming of a reserved high society kid you were supposed to be because you are above such primal desires.

It doesn’t go farther than that. You run out of years.

At least that’s the material to talk about with your doctor for the next two weeks or maybe months. Who knows, you might come up with some answers after all those years.

Your doctor asks you another question the next time you see her and you deflect.

(You’ve been avoiding the subject, but you’re pushing it, really. The thing is, your body will always be weakened from the poisoning and from your past eating experiences and you’ve got the shrapnel inside you and an alien thing that keeps you alive and you get beat up in world-saving fights a few times a month and you’re on medicine that isn’t exactly neutral. You do work out and eat healthy, most of the time at least, but sometimes you do look in the mirror and you see how remotely sickly you look.)

Since Afghanistan you’ve been pushing the _lean_ line and it’s been borderline skinny and that isn’t very good for your hurt body. And so far you just ignored that fact because you were busy dying and not dying and then doing your aftermath of almost-dying- _again_.

Now your environment is probably as stable as it gets. It’s been over two years since you came back to America being not-exactly-you.

She asks you what _you_ think it would take for you to be able to gain weight and not freak out over it.

‘I’d have to know that I can control myself which I cannot say at the moment – I’d have to be sure that there isn’t some part of me that’ll go wild if I look away for a sec,’ you reply.

‘You know that you will never know that unless you try?’ she questions. You nod. ‘Are you ready to try?’

‘Not yet,’ you tell her.

She tells you that you could try fluoxetine again if you’re afraid you wouldn’t be able to control the binging but you refuse. You’ve been doing quite well – for someone like you – and the medicine had too many side effects the first time.

‘Think about it,’ your doctor tells you. ‘But we won’t push anything unless you are ready to take that step.’

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late, my internal schedule has been screaming at me for the last 30 hours but I had internet trouble. (I mean, I get there was a really bad storm, but it's 21st century and that was annooooying.)
> 
> So, thank you for reading and all your support and I hope you enjoyed this chapter <3


	8. VIII

You do think about what your psychiatrist said. You think about it during press conferences and when you can’t sleep and when you’re overseeing the construction of arc rector in Tokyo and when you fight and when you do business in London, Rio de Janeiro, Mumbai, Cape Town, Ottawa, everywhere.

Then Bruce comes back to the US and tells you he would like to stay with the team, with you.

‘Sure, Brucey, you should have done that those few months ago when everyone run away from S.H.I.E.L.D., I’ve been  keeping one lab clean especially for you –’

‘Slow down, Tony, I grew unused to your rants and to hearing English,’ Bruce cuts in and you roll your eyes but you do shut up.

‘I need to fly to LA to get my hands on some prototypes I’ve got my team preparing but we can do some science when I come back. In three days I think, is that right, JARVIS? Three days?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ JARVIS replies and Bruce smiles at the ceiling.

‘Good to hear your voice.’

‘I could say the same, Doctor Banner,’ JARVIS replies and you roll your eyes again.

 

 

You go to LA, in the meantime you’re ambushed by Fury who wants one crazy thing or another and you’ve been avoiding him in NY ‘cause you are still mad for the thing with Phil. You figure you can work on the S.H.I.E.L.D project as it’s interesting and it’ll bring you lots of money, but you still don’t say a word more than absolutely necessary to Fury.

When you come back you manage to catch Pepper and kiss her before she heads out for a trip to Denmark and then you go down to your workshop and invite Bruce to come with you and then you show him your toys and you two talk science saying words so fast that hardly anyone on the planet would be able to understand.

You love the thrill.

(JARVIS reminds you of eating protocols and you do obey each time. Bruce starts frowning by day two but before he can ask what is going on Pepper comes back and you two play lovebirds and then fly to Chicago to oversee your local team starting up the reactor for your half-ready tower no. 2. This one says _Stark_ on the top. The LA one says _Potts_ because you promised.)

 

 

Then it’s Christmas and you spend the time with Malibu in Pepper and Happy and Rhodey who finally has some time off duty. Holidays are always touchy time ‘cause of the holiday spirit you’re not much into and the abundance of food (that doesn’t exactly happen at your place). You go running in the mornings with Happy, keeping your training schedule, and you two share memories and laugh and discuss _Downton Abbey_ and you tell Happy about some things you tell your doctor about – and no one else – because he’s been around you the longest and he understands best.

Better than JARVIS and that is something. He’s been with you before things got really bad.

‘I remember how it was when you first hired me, before I _knew_ ,’ he tells you and you nod sharply.

Pepper and Rhodey and JARVIS remember how _balanced_ everything was before Afghanistan. Pepper and Rhodey remember learning about your _thing._ Dummy remembers you with a hole in your chest. JARVIS remembers his system failing when you were inside the portal. You’ve created a _nice_ set of memories for all of them.

You host a New Year party for Stark Industries that is a fair reminiscent of the old times, late 90s, early 00s and you have lots of fun even without alcohol. Then you have a mini _saving the world_ party back in New York, three days later, because in the meantime you’ve been fighting robots and megalomaniac evil geniuses.

You pour everyone their favorite drinks, even Steve who has discovered a particular liking of sparkling wine, and you pour yourself a soda over ice.

‘You not drinking this?’ Clint asks, raising his glass with a really good scotch inside.

‘Nah, got my own stuff –’

‘I don’t think I’ve seen you drinking since we moved in,’ Natasha adds and you think you’d be happier living without too observant spies. Even though you’re not exactly hiding because this is your house, your home, and you’re not going to play games here.

‘Like I said, I’ve got my own stuff –’

‘I just think we’ve all seen your half-naked photos after you did one or another stint being drunk in public and this is a big change,’ Bruce says, his voice calm and wondering. You are aware, thank you, that there are endless of those _news_.

Not since Afghanistan though. Not since Pepper.

‘Could you please not gang up on me for _not_ drinking?’ you ask, only slightly irritated. You’ve learned to enjoyed your non-alcoholic drinks and it’s fine that way. (Mixing buspirone and alcohol can increase nervous system side effects such as dizziness, drowsiness, and difficulty concentrating, you know you’ve tried and you can’t afford to let your guard down for a sec.) ‘I’m being a responsible adult here.’

‘Weren’t you the one who kept persuading me that moderate amounts of alcohol are both socially acceptable and encouraged – and enjoyable?’ Steve questions, looking between you and the tall glass in his hand with a single wrinkle of doubt on his forehead.

You sigh.

‘Well, _you_ are _not_ on meds,’ you tell Steve. All eyes turn on you, sure thing, even though they’re pretending to be discreet. ‘What, did you S.H.I.E.L.D.’s _medical leave for half a year_ guys think you’ve got the monopoly for issues?’

‘Well, you’ve been awfully understanding when I came around before Phil was back,’ Clint says after a prolonged moment of silence during which you sip you drink.

‘Well, yeah,’ you roll your eyes. ‘Quit staring?’

They do and then they don’t exactly mention your not-drinking again. You appreciate. You tell that all to your doctor and she asks you if you’d feel comfortable sharing with your team.

‘Not yet,’ you reply.

She nods and you continue talking thought the subject of the week which is your history of compulsive behaviors and you don’t want to go down that line because it means talking your underage near-alcoholism at MIT and going down the memory lane until you reach the day Howard made you drink your first sip of whiskey and then to the first time you heard him shout in alcohol-fueled rage.

All that leaves you slightly undone and you ask Pepper to stay with you so she cancels your appointments for the next day and doesn’t let go of you.

You feel like you’re peeling layers off yourself and you’re not sure you like what’s underneath. But then you didn’t like what you were before so it’s a fair game.

 

 

Then you do it _again_ and it’s been maybe a few weeks since the previous time and you think with half-anger and half-nostalgia about that one 6 months chip you got from Happy one time, the one you still keep in one of your secret drawers in the workshop.

You save the world the next day and it does make you feel a bit better but you hate it when they call _you_ a hero and a role model and a changed man because you’re none of those.

Things are more or less fine, your doctor talks you into the dark corners of your head and adjusts your anxiety meds. You finally open the Stark Tower no. 2 and the Potts tower and build another flying circus for Fury because you’re nice and smart like that.

There is this time you go out for a business dinner, get the signatures you’ve been fishing for for months and then – you don’t want to think how and why or anything – you somehow end up eating an entire chocolate cake on your way back; it makes you feel ashamed as well as sick with all the sugar even though, ironically, you’re nowhere near being _painfully_ full.

You get home and you’re angry. You do anger a lot when it comes to managing yourself these days.

The team is having a bonding night, you don’t know why would they need more bonding but then you get somehow antisocial as soon as you get inside your house. They are laughing and having fun and you stare at that from distance with mixed feelings because while they are living their common team life only, your is so much more. You’re busy, you love being busy, you need to be busy to keep your brain functioning.

‘Stay for pizza?’ Steve half-asks, half-states when he notices you and you can feel your blood pulsating in all your veins.

(You shouldn’t. You’ve eaten too much. You know the calorie count. Your head tells you immediately how long you’d have to run to burn them.)

‘Yeah, sure, why not,’ you say because when you fucked up, you could as well fuck at totally and enjoy it, at this point it doesn’t matter how much beyond your limits you’ve gone. Some things don’t change over the years.

‘Sir will not be eating with you, Captain,’ JARVIS interrupts, making Steve frown  and you shiver slightly. ‘Please, sir,’ the A.I. adds in the sad voice that always makes you give in and you know that you will go upstairs obediently, leaving the team behind. That’s what is best for you.

‘All right, prep my stuff, J. Another time,’ you say, grinning at the team confused faces, and then you’re gone. It’s rude, but you’re always rude so that’s nothing new.

You’ve learned this much: sometimes you have to think of yourself before the others.

 

 

JARVIS calls Rhodey who has just landed in New York in the middle of the night, a day earlier than he was supposed to. Rhodey comes by as soon as he can and stay close to you and gives you a belly rub even though it doesn’t hurt _that_ much.

‘Thanks,’ you tell him.

‘That’s what friends are for,’ he replies and you can hear all the words he doesn’t say: _where are your teammates?_ Because Pepper and Happy are halfway across the world. But then he adds to himself and you hear it too _it took you years to tell me, your best friend._

Rhodey is an angel, you swear.

He asks you to talk him through this evening like he did the first you shared your _problem_ with him and you obey. You tell him what you’ve been working on in therapy – you tell him just about everything.

‘Really, I don’t get why some people are so fixated on the word _recovery_ , you don’t fucking recover and if you do you’re such a lucky bastard,’ you laugh drily. You always laugh. ‘I call it fighting or battling or struggling or something, not recovering. It’s too tiresome to be named a recovery.’

‘I know it sounds silly, but relapsing once in a few weeks – compared to the way you used to be – isn’t that bad,’ Rhodey tells you when neither of you can fall asleep, Rhodey because his internal clock is somewhere far and you because of buspirone and too fast thinking process. ‘But _you_ don’t settle for anything that isn’t complete.’

‘I’m still irrationally anxious about stuff,’ you admit because you can let yourself. Rhodey has seen you at your most broken. Rhodey has never made you felt vulnerable. ‘Not in _anxiety disorder_ and panic attacks kind of way, my meds take care of that – in a control freak I-don’t-want-to-be-a-failure way.’

‘So you’ve been digging back to Howard with your doc?’ Rhodey asks. You laugh drily.

‘I can’t blame everything on Howard –’

‘How about Ty?’

‘– and Ty,’ you protest but the words feel weak. There are exactly four people in the world, including you and Ty, who know what happened and the two others are in room with you.

‘You haven’t told you doctor about _that_?’ Rhodey asks, holding you in a way that means affection and support and understanding, in a way that means anger and protection.

‘No.’

‘You probably should.’

‘I probably should,’ you admit. ‘But every time I try I – I just choke on my words. You know. You remember when I told you –’

‘I could come with you if you think that would help,’ Rhodey says because he _is_ an angel.

Rhodey is in town for two weeks and by day ten you agree to that and you take Rhodey with you (you didn’t manage to swallow a single bite before) and he has to calm you down a few times on your way to the office because you’re not sure there is anything in the world you want to talk about less and that makes you feel more vulnerable.

Your psychiatrist loves Rhodey, of course she does, and she doesn’t interrupt you for a second or rush you when you tell her the things about Ty you’ve never mentioned, when you tell her in your best (broken) Stark fashion you he _used_ you and then dumped you. You never use the actual r-word but it’s hanging in the air.

Then you discuss the whole story, with Rhodey’s arm wrapped protectively around you, for an hour longer that your visit was supposed to last.

You don’t tell Pepper. You can’t tell Pepper. Rhodey doesn’t push.

Pepper is even more of an angel because she accepts that you’ve had some fucking catharsis-but-not-really and doesn’t push you, just holds you gently and strokes your hair and kisses your whole body in Pepper-speak for _I love you_.

She has to leave in the morning but you have Rhodey for three more days.

You spend time with the team, as much as you can bear human contact right now, and Rhodey still hovers protectively around you in the way you’re pretty sure only you can understand because it’s been going on for decades.

When Rhodey is gone you miss him but it’s how the world works: it won’t stop because you’ve had a life crisis over something that has happened twenty years ago.

 

 

You work, you work with Bruce and he makes this frown a few times at JARVIS slightly nudging you to eat in his code-speak; Bruce isn’t around often enough to make anything out of it though. And the food protocol names are not obvious at all.

The other day your doctor tells you she’s glad you have Rhodey around.

‘I’d be dead if it weren’t for him,’ you reply and you do mean it in at least two very different ways.

You want to ask Pepper to marry you but you don’t because you haven’t figured out _you_ yet and you don’t want to force the messed-up you upon her. It’s funny ‘cause the world gets a pretty set persona of Tony Stark and everyone treats you as such and it’s a big lie. But then most of your public face is a joke in one way or another. You at home and you at work are real.

You in the suit is you in disguise that you appreciate a lot because it’s useful.

You keep thinking of what you need to be to be a fully real you.

You decide you’d like not to be afraid of yourself (and messing up everything you’ve created).

 

 

You try and you fail and you end up binging in the middle of the night – in the tower’s kitchen, something you haven’t done before – and it’s all because you wanted to take the matter in your hands and fill up the still empty hole somewhere in the middle of your persona.

Someone almost manages to sneak up on you.

‘Hey, hey, don’t drink it straight from the fridge like that – are you having a midnight milk and cookies run here?’ Natasha asks, gesturing at the empty cookie bag. This all is what you’d call a slip-up these days. (She doesn’t know about the previous three.)

You don’t stop drinking because you’re not sure you can.

Natasha comes up to you with a frown on her forehead and takes the bottle out of your hands gently, puts it away and clasps her hands around yours, still somewhere mid-air.

‘You’ll get tummy ache if you do that,’ she tells you, her expression unreadable. You take a second to blank out your thoughts and then you snicker.

‘Did I just hear the Black Widow say _tummy ache_?’ you ask, ignoring all emotions surrounding this situation. Easier that way.

‘And I’ve just seen you sneaking off to devour midnight comfort food. I’d call it even. We can keep it secret.’

For a moment you want to say _yeah_ and laugh it off but you’re sick of your own lies.

‘No, don’t,’ you say and Natasha’s face is back to the frowny look. ‘I can’t do this, all right? I shouldn’t. Don’t give me excuses. No midnight comfort foods and alike. Not for me.’

There is a flicker of something you cannot figure out in her eyes and then she nods sharply. You don’t have so say anything else. She’s smart and – she’s a woman. They deal with this… more.

She seems to be remembering things, you can almost see her thoughts running, and then there is almost-understanding in her eyes and it’s immediately replaced by concern.

‘Does Pepper know?’ she asks finally, her hands still wrapped around yours, and you nod.

‘Yeah, we are – we are working it out. See,’ you pause, letting a short harsh laughter escape. ‘Not even I am perfect. You got that bit right in your assessment.’

Natasha grimaces but it disappears within a second, and then she gives you a quick awkward hug, grabs her favorite box of tea and disappears. You stand in the middle of the kitchen, barefoot and unsure, with your hands wrapped tightly around your belly and you want _more_ , you want to go on, but you take a deep breath and walk out of the kitchen, small steps, and sneak back into your empty bed.

 

 

You go back to living your definition of normal. Work, save the world, science, work more, argue with JARVIS, banquet, meeting, work, Pepper time, science etc. You like it as much as you’re capable of.

It’s the end of April when you tell your psychiatrist that maybe you want to try.

To gain weight, that is. Because as much as you’re in denial, you’re too rational _not_ to notice that you’re a bit too thin – that’s how you phrase it. You learn that at this point there isn’t much she can do for you medication-wise because most meds for bulimia would be too much and they’re based on fluoxetine and if they’re the off-label ones they would interact badly with buspirone. And you definitely don’t feel ready to get off your anxiety meds, you know yourself well enough to tell her that.

‘Because your weight is not a risk to your life I cannot force you,’ she tells you. ‘You have to tell me you are ready.’

You _want_ to be ready. You _want_ to look at yourself and look past things as petty and silly as the sharpness of your bones because that’s what you still find yourself looking for. You _want_ to feel at ease and comfortable because that would make you happier and relaxed and in consequence that would make everyone happier.

You don’t want to rely on others to keep you in check and sane.

‘This is a big thing that you are seriously considering this decision,’ she tells you.

You go home thinking and try to do the homework you got months ago:being whom would make you happy? What would you have to be like to be happy?

Do you need to be perfect to be happy?

No, you know the answer to that. So far, you’ve been trying _too much_ and it’s had the opposite effect.

‘What would make this fucking split in my head heal?’ you ask JARVIS when you’re spending the night in workshop after you made sure Pepper was asleep soundly. You’re too restless to sleep.

‘I do not know, sir,’ JARVIS replies. ‘I wish I did.’

You fix one of your old cars car and spend the time thinking about the first time you noticed the changes to your body – because it was sudden. You were okay and then you weren’t and you looked for reasons for being left alone like that.

(It was before everyone, it was in the time when the only one you had was Dummy.)

‘You know Miss Potts loves you no matter your physical appearance,’ JARVIS adds and you nod. ‘If love based on appearance was an issue, I am sure it has _not_ been the case since you came back to America.’

JARVIS knows better than to say Ty’s name but you still hear it.

You nod and pretend to believe – you do know this and you’re a scientist and one of the best minds in the world and you’re rational but this is the one and only thing that your calculating mind fails to comprehend.

 

 

For your birthday there is an Avengers-and-friends party and wow, it’s not even interrupted by an alien invasion or something, and you do your perfect job eating under Pepper’s watchful eye (you’re thankful for that) and dodging questions about you not drinking even on your special day (you could but you don’t want to).

Then you go to your bedroom with Pepper and she tells you she has a real gift for you and you don’t have enough time to wonder before she takes out a little box and asks you to marry her.

‘I know you’ve been waiting until you’re _healed_ ,’ she tells the speechless you. ‘And I’ve been waiting for you to realize that it’s stupid. You haven’t yet so I run out of patience.’

‘But –’ you manage before she silences you with a kiss.

‘I don’t want anyone else, ever, _ever_ ,’ she tells you. ‘All right? I was trying to respect your need of time to figure yourself out and appreciated that you shared a lot about your therapy with me but you weren’t _getting_ this. I can wait another fifteen years if you want me to – but I’d like you now. The way you are.’

‘I’m – I don’t _deserve_ you,’ you tell her and there’s nothing melodramatic to it, it’s a simple statement of a fact. You’ve got (past) reputation and lots of (present) issues and she’s a saint.  ‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ you tell her, too, and you don’t say anything more because you’re both busy otherwise during the night.

You don’t tell the team but you tell Happy and Rhodey first thing in the morning, holding a mini teleconference while eating your breakfast – busy week – and you laugh at them when they start to argue who’s going to be the best man.

Pepper comes by later and kisses you goodbye before she leaves for work and you leave for yours.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Ah, big things happening, I'd love to know what you think about this! I hope you're liking what's been happening so far :)


	9. IX

You tell your doctor about the engagement because you’ve learned that much: she helps you. You’re not keeping secrets from her. You guess you’ve been so fucking lucky to have found someone like her.

‘She said she doesn’t want to wait until I deem myself _healed._ She said she wants me exactly the way I am and claimed I don’t need to be perfect and got annoyed at me for not figuring it out myself.’

‘Are you happy?’ your doctor asks you.

You consider.

‘I think I might be,’ you reply.

But thinking you _might_ be happy doesn’t actually make you miraculously perfectly fine and you still slip. You always tell your doctor. You don’t always tell the others.

You’ve never told your team and you know Natasha didn’t share whatever she understood.

You want to make things work so much that you push yourself too far and you can’t look Pepper in the eye afterwards; you’ve been away doing business for a week and you spent that time on something you’d have to honestly call the worst mini-cycle you’ve had since Afghanistan. A whole fucking week during which you’re talking science and schmoozing and then, as soon as you’re out of the public eye, you’re nothing more than a ghost and a slave to your illness.

The reason you don’t want to tell her is because she’ll blame herself for pushing you (not true). Pepper feeling guilty about your fuck-ups is the last thing you want.

But she’s known you for fifteen years and she immediately notices something is wrong so she takes your hand and delicately talks you out of staying with the team and celebrating one thing or another and she gently leads you upstairs and you almost manage to ignore your teammate’s stares.

Pepper lets you cry and shout and hug her and she kisses you and holds you and you know she’s too good for you but you know she wants you and no one else.

‘Don’t look at me,’ you tell her.

You’re not who she thinks you are. You are a joke.

‘I will tell you that I love you until I lose my voice,’ she counters, rolling her eyes and not pitying you. Not judging. (You know how you look, you were supposed to gain _weight_ in a _healthy_ way and not just put on _fat_ by consuming 4,000 excessive kcal a day.) ‘I know you hate this – but I still want you. I always will.’

You have some amazing sex later and she sleeps nestled into you and you understand that, all of sudden: she still wants you.

The broken you.

It’s funny, you think when you lay in bed all night, eyes fixed on the fake constellations JARVIS displays on the ceiling for you.

You don’t feel up to facing the world for the rest of the day but you’re happy to talk with Rhodey when he comes by – sent by Pepper or JARVIS, you can’t be bothered to ask – and you two have some great time. Then Pepper comes back home, in the evening, and you three have dinner and it’s surprisingly effortless.

The next morning you get up, dress yourself and get ready to meet the team.

You go to eat breakfast downstairs and you meet 3/5 of your teammates and they stare at you.

‘What?’ you asks, raising an eyebrow and walking straight to the coffee maker.

‘You look… good,’ Steve says and Clint and Natasha nod. ‘I dunno. Healthier? And you’re smiling.’

‘I always –’

‘You don’t smile, usually you just grimace,’ Clint cuts in and you have to admit he’s kinda right, though you _do_ smile a lot when they’re not around. You’re surprised they even noticed.

(You’re wondering if Steve said _healthier_ because you’re a bit less wiry than you were when he last saw you or because you’re actually not looking like a zombie.)

‘Well, whatever,’ you murmur and take the cup of coffee and take a few slow sips of the thick bitter liquid. ‘Me and Pepper, we’re getting married,’ you add.

She told you to tell the team whenever you felt up to it. It won’t be a big thing in reality though media will probably make it a crazy mess with all their speculations and silliness.

Your team is pretty dumbfounded and you smirk around the edge of the mug.

‘Didn’t see that one coming?’ you ask playfully.

‘You just didn’t peg me for the long term relationship guy, not to mention _marriage_ ,’ Clint says and then whistles. ‘Phil’s gonna have kittens. You sure Pepper didn’t tell him? They’re buddies –’

‘She left telling everyone to me,’ you assure them. ‘You can be the bearer of the news.’

‘No wonder you look happier,’ Steve says softly, still eying you slightly unsurely. You wink at him because that’s what you do and you grab your customary two waffles and a fruit salad and munch on it, pretty much ignoring the world besides your tablet because there’s some emergency work to do that cannot wait even half an hour.

You have to go to Texas to oversee something getting fixed – they need your expertise – and you come back in time for therapy. Then you spend the night with Pepper planning your less-than-thirty-people wedding. No press.

‘In a few months,’ you tell Pepper. ‘I still – I need to be sure. Not that I’m having doubts, but I need to be sure about _myself_ , you know how this is –’

‘I know,’ she cuts in and calms you down. ‘There’s no hurry. And you know… I always thought May would be nice.’

‘Sure, May, why not,’ you agree and kiss her. May sounds great.

 

 

The next month the team is sent out for a mission to Arctic which is pretty fucked up for everyone involved, mostly Steve who’s trying not to let his memories turns into vicious flashbacks. No one seems to be fond of the cold.

And then there’s a portal involved and while you don’t have to go up and almost-die – even though you wouldn’t die that easily, this suit has been upgraded – it still makes you feel really, _really_ uncomfortable. It’s like your current dosage of anxiety meds isn’t able to handle this shit and you end up crashing down after the fight and freaking out. Just a bit.

It passes when you listen to JARVIS’ calm voice talking you out of your head the way he always does, with ease and skill, even if it takes a long time.

You’re too wound up to function normally and you can’t exactly go back home – there are still very suspicious energy surges so the portal might open again – so you’re playing a little game. The anxiety ends in you throwing up, not on purpose this time, it’s just that your body is somehow used to reacting this way, and you don’t think you can eat (still anxiety’s fault: it’s like that one time after Afghanistan when being _lean_ didn’t matter because it was fake; these issues are not part of your big issue but something separate).

JARVIS coaxes you into eating though and you make your best effort at listening to him because you both know that after a not-eating time it’s much harder _not_ to binge.

There _is_ another skirmish two days later and you stay on base for one more day to make sure the energy levels are back to normal and no more creepy alien creatures will come to say hi.

During those three days you get a lot of stares – even though you’ve playing your role just fine – especially from Natasha and Bruce.

 

 

A few hours before you will be flying back home you’re all eating dinner and halfway through it you’re not sure you can go on because you don’t _want to_. JARVIS being his usual self reminds you gracefully that you’re required to fulfill the protocol’s objectives.

‘Tony?’

‘Yes, Brucie?’

‘Can I ask you a question about JARVIS?’ he asks, looking around at the rest of the team and taking off his glasses and focusing his eyes on you.

‘Shoot,’ you tell him despite how reluctant he sounds.

‘… you might prefer it in private.’

‘Oh,’ you frown, but you are 99,8% sure you know what this is about. ‘No, no, it’s okay.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah,’ you confirm. High time to share the story, right?

‘Why does JARVIS tell you when and what to eat?’ he asks, sounding as if he was careful with the wording. Right. Bruce’s very smart.

‘That, my dear, is a complex matter,’ you reply, playing with a piece of meat on your plate that you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to eat.

‘Everything is always complex with you, _genius_ ,’ Clint comments, sounding pretty bored, and then stuffs a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. You nod with amused grin.

‘Sir?’ JARVIS asks with concerns in his voice you’re pretty sure is audible only to you.

‘No, J, I guess it’s all right,’ you say and put your fork away. ‘They should know, baby. It’s because I’m pretty sure – that’s a tested theory – that I’d just fail at eating if it weren’t for him. Well. Most of the time at least.’

‘What exactly does _fail at eating_ mean?’

‘That gets complex, too,’ you reply only to gain an annoyed sigh from Clint and a curious stare from Bruce. ‘Well, let me tell you I might have… somehow of an food issue.’

‘Tony, I –’ Natasha starts but you don’t let her finish.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m not gonna give you the generic crap,’ you say, waving you hand dismissively, and clear your throat almost unnoticeably. ‘I’ve been bulimic for – nineteen years, I think. It’s been – yeah. I should probably say _recovering_ bulimic at this point but me and that word are at odds, so – that’s for another discussion though – hey, don’t stare?’ you add because they _are_ staring.

You understand that it’s a surprise and everything and it’s strange but you suddenly feel okay with having told them and with them knowing and with the whole mess because you’re trying. This is trying. (You still binge sometime and say self-deprecating jokes that Pepper hates but you can’t stop, but you’re getting a hang of things. It’s just the way things are.)

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Steve says with his sad Cap face and Natasha is half a word ahead of you so you let her answer.

‘Bulimia is an eating disorder that is characterized by alternating food binging and purging, Cap –’

‘Didn’t anyone give Capsicle the _Why shouldn’t you date a supermodel_ handbook? I think it’s all in there,’ you say, doing a good job at not cringing when you hear _binge_ and _purge_ because really, those two words have been pretty much overused in your life.

Steve take a moment to process the worlds.

‘I’m still not sure I understand,’ he says finally and his face is combination of sad and sheepishly accepting his own lack of knowledge. Tony nods and he does get it: eating disorders were probably not _glamour_ in the times of food shortage, unlike nowadays.

‘I could use a metaphor,’ you say easily. ‘But it might not be nice to about everyone here.’

‘A metaphor?’ Clint asks, glancing at Natasha whose eyes are still locked on you.

‘I believe sir wants to propose you an explanation of his issue in a way that would be more easily imaginable to you all,’ JARVIS offers and you smirk, knowing that he’ll see that. They all nod and Bruce nudges you and tells you to go on.

‘It’s like having this part of you that isn’t really you,’ you explain, carefully choosing the right words. ‘And that makes you do things you don’t want to do and that controls you sometimes – and you can neither accept it not get rid of it. And, in this case, it makes you physically sick.’

‘But you don’t look–’

‘It’s sneaky, Cap, ‘cause you usually don’t _see_ bulimia until it’s too late. But I’m doing better – also, everyone, don’t freak out about this, ‘kay? I have J to manage my meal plan and watch me all the time and he’s doing the best job he can and I really don’t need any more keepers. Or people who think I’m gonna break or something. Don’t stare, Hawkeye, it’s rude –’

‘You told me don’t think a few hundred thousand people searching for your naked pictures on the internet every day is an invasion of privacy – how are you fine with that?’

‘Fine with what?’ you ask, starting to tap your fingers on your thing because you’re tense and bored and you want to be home already.

‘People staring at you, I dunno, body image something?’

‘They don’t see what I see,’ you reply truthfully and that isn’t followed by any comments. You’re not sure it means anything to them. (Also, most of those pictures are old and accidental and you never look at them yourself and just don’t think about them.)

‘So that’s why you almost never stayed with us for dinner nights and all those things –’

‘Yeah, Capsicle, pizza is a big _no_ food, but it doesn’t really –’

‘Of course it matters,’ Steve insists so genuinely that you wonder if it does.

‘So that medicine you mentioned the other time?...’ Bruce trails off questioningly and you shake your head.

‘No, no, that’s post-Chitauri thing, buspirone,’ you supply and Bruce’s eyes light up in recognition. ‘Fluoxetine didn’t really work so we’ve been doing all the job by talking, I have a therapist – she’s great – and constant behavioral therapy, thanks to J.’

‘Glad you’re getting help,’ Natasha speaks up finally and you meet her eyes and give her a tiniest nod.

‘Well, even I’m not above that, though I’ve gotta admit it took me long to realize that,’ you tell them honestly and then clap your hands, making half of them jump up a bit. ‘But, now that we’re done with issues, can we proceed to the next piece of our original plan? I think we were supposed to debrief with Fury via the magical thing called satellite connection – he’s somewhere above the Indian Ocean, right? – ‘cause I’ll have my fiancée waiting when I come back home.’

Everyone moves suddenly and then everything is back to normal.

 

 

When you come to the tower, you go to see Happy first of all and you tell him you told the team because he’s Happy and he deserves to know first. He laughs and mock-punches your arm in a tv-like friendly gesture and gives you a bear hug.

‘Good for you, boss,’ he adds then and goes back to reading his book, ignoring you completely and it makes you laugh.

Then you tell Pepper and you tell her how much you missed her and you spend the whole afternoon on one sofa and then you eat a nice dinner (you can’t make yourself not count calories, you aren’t sure you’ll ever stop) and spend the rest of the night in bed.

For the next few weeks the team stares at you more than normally, some of them pretending not to and some – like Clint – winking at you every time you catch them, but after some time they stop doing that, too, probably growing used to the thought of you being bulimic and realizing that you’re not going to let them _see_ anything even if you do fuck up. (Well, Natasha does notice something is off with you this one time and she asks you if it’s _tummy_ _ache_ and you nod and she gives you painkillers and borrows you her heating pad but you never talk about anything.)

(Sometimes you still don’t let anyone but your psychiatrist know.)

Bruce has this strange mixture of frown and smile on his face every time JARVIS reminds you of your protocols and you act accordingly.

The only person that actually comes up to you to talk is Steve and it takes him two weeks.

‘When you told us about your… problem, on the Quinjet, I – I thought it was bit silly. To do those things.’

You nod, it’s actually something you expected most people to think and yet they keep surprising you with _not_ telling you’re just making a drama queen of yourself.

‘I still – I still can’t really wrap my head around that, Tony, just don’t take it wrong, in my times, we didn’t really – it was the Depression –’

‘I get it,’ you assure him. You prefer him being honest rather than pretending to be fine with it and secretly thinking you’re some kind of a freak.

‘No, but – I did some research,’ Steve says, smiling shyly, in an honest way only Captain America can. ‘JARVIS helped. It makes much more sense now and I just wanted to tell you that it’s amazing that you’ve been so strong. Dealing with things for – for that long.’

‘Thanks, Cap,’ you say, not sure what more you can add. Strong is the last thing you’d call yourself, but you’ve had enough therapy to recognize that your point of view is biased.

‘And I just wanted to tell you that whatever you might think, you’re a very handsome fella,’ Steve says quickly, eyes shining. ‘And Pepper surely knows that,’ he adds and disappears, leaving you standing in the middle of the living room and gaping. It’s…. sweet.

Then you laugh.

Captain America’s words don’t have a magical healing power but they do help a bit.

You all slowly go back to your normal lives and you still rule the world.

‘Are you happy now?’ your doctor asks you.

‘I don’t think I’m striving to be happy right now,’ you tell her truthfully. ‘I think I just want things be good and then it’ll happen at some point.’

‘I hope that will work for you,’ she replies, giving you the nicest smile you’ve seen on her. ‘You’ve certainly earned that.’

 

 

In late March it’s a month and a half before you’re gonna get married and two months before you’ll be 44.

You’ve been peeling layers off yourself for over five years and you wonder if this raw simple _imperfect_ you is what you’ve always been looking for (you wonder if you’ve been searching for the wrong thing all those years because it seems like you need to find a way to accept yourself being imperfect (something you father and Ty destroyed and you took their words for the truth) instead of building a perfect you).

In late March you do a photo session for June’s issue of _Rolling_ _Stone_ you’re wearing nothing but a pair of smart designer’s pants. Pepper talks you into this and it’s sneaky because the whole world will be crazy about this – you haven’t _undressed_ yourself like that since Afghanistan, actually it’s the first non-business interview you’ve given since that time – while you and Pepper will be calmly enjoying your honeymoon.

Pepper talked you into this insisting that you are incredible and that deserve the world’s understanding.

The big words on the pages say _the man underneath the armor_ and _I have nothing to hide_ and _scarred hero_. You do let the world see your scars and the arc reactor embedded in your chest – everyone knows it’s there by now but no one has seen it like that – and your athletic body (you look perfect despite more pounds on you that you’re comfortable with but no one else knows that and your psychiatrists praises you for taking such a bold step and making the best out of it). You let the world see that you are just human and that yes, you can be broken – even if they don’t know how far that one goes – and you need time to heal.

You hope maybe someone will see themselves in you and it will change their lives.

It’s an article and an interview and there’s this bit that amuses you:

 

 

> RS: You realize, Mister Stark, that sometimes it’s just hard to remember?
> 
> TS: Remember what?
> 
> RS: That you might be Iron Man and a genius and one of the wealthiest men in the world – but you’re just like everyone else. 
> 
> TS: Don’t let the wrapping fool you! [both laugh]

They don’t realize _how_ human you are. But it’s okay.

They call you genius, uncompromising, brilliant, febrile and they call you magnetic and Byronic and conflicted and you think you’re all of that things.

You enjoy those words as you stare at your electronic copy of the magazine in spare moments of your marathon of events with Pepper: you open a Stark Towers in Berlin and in Madrid and in Beijing and in Sydney within a week, all filled with cutting-edge research facilities because Stark International can never be big and amazing enough. You give lectures and attend parties and teach. You smile and laugh and win people and you do take over every single space you find yourself in and that is who you are.

At night you kiss Pepper and knowing that she won’t leave you (even if your body is no longer perfect in your head, even if it doesn’t _fit_ ; you hope one day you will get to the point when it won’t matter, you know you can’t rush it) makes you feel this special warmth inside.

You deal with your issues in the meantime because there are no magical spells to make anxiety and an eating disorder just go away. You accept that and you move on around them. Sometimes you still break apart in Happy’s or Rhodey’s lap but you’ve learned how to pick up pieces. And then you get up, work, make toasts, save the day and laugh with your friends and you wear the suit and, most of all, you grow and change the world and you _create_.

It feels nice. It feels like it makes sense.

It feels like you are (almost) yourself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t like long notes, but ;d I want to start this way: I chose bulimia on purpose. To make a point.
> 
> I’ve read _all_ ED stories that are available in several fandoms I’ve been in and 95% of them were about anorexia (or high school girls who occasionally threw up). Anorexia is shown, in a way, as glamorous and fascinating, it’s light and delicate and it’s a win. Bulimia is the ugly thing. It’s being out of control and being a mess, it’s constant failing and hatred and even more failing and it’s the overlooked disorder because it’s so hard to notice: the battles and not difficult to hide.
> 
> It seems – looking at general opinions – that it’s easy to accept (and write) not eating because it’s clean and understandable, even to people who never had food issues. It’s tougher to understand (and write) urges and desires when it’s all dirty and contaminated. Bulimia makes people think “pull yourself together” and “stop dramatizing”. 
> 
> So I wanted to write this story exactly this way, even if some parts get ugly and painful and scarily predictable and sometimes you never stop counting and calculating. I leave you a lot of space for interpretation here, lots of unfilled blanks and barely mentioned details, because that’s how I wanted this story to function: the sentences might end with full stops but they are left unfinished. Maybe it explains something and maybe it helps. I hope it does. 
> 
>  
> 
> Well, after this rant, thank you again for reading and all the incredible support I got from you, all your encouraging and insightful comments <3 I’ll be very thankful for your feedback and opinions on the last piece and I am, of course, very eager to read anything you’d like to share and discuss anything you’d like to discuss :)


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